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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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Shelf £M42 0\ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






Practical Recitations 



Selections for titttan (Exercises 



APPROPRIATE FOR 

Reception-Days, Holidays, Poets' Birthdays, etc., 

INCLUDING 

CONCERT AND MUSICAL RECITATIONS, AND DIA- 
LOGUES FROM POPULAR AUTHORS, ESPE- 
CIALLY ARRANGED FOR THIS WORK. 









Caroline B/LkRow, 



Instructor in Elocution, Central School, Brooklyn, and formerly 
Instructor in Vassar and Smith Colleges. 



NEW YORK : 
C L A R k & MiTNARD, Publishers, 

771 Broadway and G7 ft G9 Ninth Stkket. 



A PRACTICAL READER. , .tJ>\ 

WITH \ * 

EXERCISES IN VOCAL CULTURE. 

By CAROLINE B. LeROW, 

Instructor in Elocution, Central School, Brooklyn, and formerly at Smith, 
and Vassar Colleges. 



All students are expected to be able to read well ordinary prose and 
poetry, and it is for the purpose of helping them to do this, as well as to 
help teachers in the teaching of reading, that this book is prepared. 

It is thoroughly practical. No unnecessary technical terms are used. 
The subjects explained and illustrated are those only which, as the result 
of many years' experience among teachers as well as pupils, the compiler 
has found most necessary. 

As physical development and correct vocalization must precede all good 
reading, the simplest and therefore most essential physical and vocal ex- 
ercises are given, with full directions for their use. 

The selections for reading present nothing of a merely showy style of 
elocution. They are adapted for the upper classes of Grammar Schools, 
as well as for High and advanced schools. 

We claim that the Practical Reader contains more suitable material for 
elocutionary work in the school-room, in more condensed, analytical, and 
available form, than any other Reader or Speaker before the public. 



224 Pages, 16mo, Handsome Cloth Binding, Red Edges. 

A Specimen Copy for Examination, or Copies for Introduction, 
will be Delivered at 60 Cents Each. 



HOW TO TEACH READING. 

By CAROLINE B. LeROW. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Failure in the Teaching of Reading— Teaching by Imitation— Natural and 
Logical Method— Variety in Teaching — Physical Exercise— Value of Exercise 
— Directions for Using Exercises — Exercises for the Body— Exercises for the 
Chest— Cautions in the Use of Physical Exercises — Breathing— Breathing Ex- 
ercises — Cautions in the Use of Breathing Exercises — Whispering— Articu- 
lation— Vowel Sounds— Consonant Sounds— Final Consonants— Physical 
Effort in Articulation — Impediments of Speech— Blundering Articulation- 
Manner of Practicing Exercises in Articulation — Spelling Words by Sounds- 
Naturalness in Reading— Place of Emphasis — Selection of Words— Teaching 
without a Book — Punctuation— Sense Independent of Punctuation— The 
Reading of Poetry— Concert Reading — Reading and Singing— Vocal Ac- 
curacy in Recitations— Breathlessness in Reading — Timidity in Reading — 
Work in Advanced Classes— Special Faults— Extract from " Reading as a 
Fine Art/' 

32 Pages. Price Postpaid, 12 Cents per Copy. 

CLARK & MAYNARD, Publishers, 

771 Broadway, New York. 

Copyright, 1886, by Clark & Maynard. 



PREFACE, 



Kecitations form one of the most attractive features 
of school enter tainments, and give a pleasant variety to 
every-day work ; yet few teachers have the time, even if 
they have the ability, to drill pupils in the long and diffi- 
cult pieces which form the bulk of the countless Eecita- 
tions offered to the public. 

The selections included in this volume are in harmony 
ivith the spirit of class-room ivork, which demands brev- 
ity, simplicity, good sense, and sound morality. This 
is the only compilation of the kind in which these mat- 
ters are considered as of equal importance with elocu- 
tionary effect. Very few of the pieces are to be found 
in any other book, and each one has been practically 
tested in the school-room. The style of rendering, 
wherever specified, can be changed, of course, to suit the 
taste of the teacher. 

As it is desirable that the largest possible number of 
students should share in such exercises, many short 
selections, excellent for practice in correct emphasis and 
distinct articulation, are provided for the purpose. 

The observance of our poets'' birthdays is becoming a 
pleasant and profitable custom in most schools, and 



4 Preface. 

provision has been made for these anniversaries as well 
as for all other holidays. 

As it is not possible to make liberal provision for each 
poet, it is hoped that the Alphabets will be suggestive 
of their best poems, and the prose extracts concerning 
the writers will inspire in students a desire to become 
better acquainted with them and their works. 



CONTENTS. 



Miscellaneous Recitations. 



A Bird's Ministry, 

A Discourse of Buddha, 

After Vacation, 

An Illumined Text, 

Are the Heroes Dead? . 

A Song for the Conquered, 

A Strange Experience, . 

A Swedish Poem, 

A True Story, 

A Turkish Tradition. 

Beside the Railway Track, 

Concerning Beginnings and 

Eyes that See Not, 

Extract from a Letter, 

Failed, 

Forefathers' Day 

Forward, 

Growth, 

Happiness, 

Her Angel, 

Home Lights, . 

Humility, 

Labor, * . 

Lamentation of the Lungs, 

Little Christel, 

Luther, 

Moral Courage, 

My Portion, 

Noblesse Oblige, 

No Work the Hardest Work 

Only a Little, 

Only a Little Thing, 

Original Maxims, 

Original Maxims, 

Questions, 

Saxon Grit, 

Sparrows, 

Some Old School-books, 

The Amen of the Rocks, 

The Angel of Dawn. 

The Barbarous Chief, . 

The Blessing of the Poets, 

The Burial of the Old Flag, 

The Coast-guard, . 

Their Cost, 

The Daily Task. 

The Demon on the Roof, 



Ends, 



Margaret J. Preston, 


. 40 


Edwin Arnold, . 


. 30 


The Kingdom of Home* . 1 


Christian at Work, 


. 55 


Helen Lee Sargent, 


. 26 


William W. Story, 


. 66 


Josephine Pollard, 


. 14 


Anon., . 


. 47 


Baldwin's Monthly, 


. 80 


Interior, 


. 43 


Anon., . 


. 65 


Rev. A. K. H. Boyd, 


. 13 


Ella Jewett, 


. 44 


Wm. Wirt, 


. 41 


Phillips Thompson, 


. 27 


Helen Hunt Jackson, 


. 79 


Susan Coolidge, 


. 24 


Horace Mann, 


. 30 


Maggie B. Peeke, 


. 55 


Anna F. Burn ham, 


. 25 


Sunday-school Times 


, • 13 


Ernest W. Shurtleff, 


. 35 


Rev. Orville Dewey, 


. 28 


Phrenological Journ 


al, . 44 


Mary E. Bradley, 


. 82 


Joaquin Miller, 


. 74 


Rev. Sydney Smith, 


. 17 


Carlotta Perry, 


. 50 


Carlotta Perry, 


. 59 


C. F. Orne, 


. 18 


Dora Goodale, . 


. 49 


Mrs. M. P. Handy. 


. 68 


James A. Garfield, 


. 74 


George Washington, 


. 71 


Kate Lawrence, 


. 77 


Rev. Robert Collyer, 


. 51 


Adeline D. T. Whitne 


y, • 32 


Harper's Weekly, 


. 19 


Christian Gellert, 


. 67 


J. S. Cutler, 


. 76 


Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 


. 38 


James T. Fields, 


. 115 


Mary A. Barr, . 


. 62 


Emily H. Miller, 


. 42 


Ellen M. H. Gates. . 


. 21 


Marianne Farninghar 


n, . 15 


Josephine Pollard, 


. 48 



Contents, 



TITLE. 

The Holy Place, . . . 

The King's Bell 

The Landing 1 of the Pilgrims, 

The Light-house, 

The Little Light, .... 

The Little Messenger of Love, . 

The Old Folks in the New School-house, 

The Old Reading Class, 

The Old Stone Basin, 

The People's Holidays, 

The Silver Bird's Nest, 

The Storming of Stony Point, 

The Twenty-first of February, . 

The Value of Literature, 

The Work of a Sunbeam, 

True Heroism, .... 

Uses of Adversity, 

" What's the Lesson for To-day?" 

What of That? .... 

Wind and Sea, .... 



AUTHOR. PAGE 

Mary Frances Butts, . 29 

Eben E. Rexford, . . 57 

Felicia Remans, . . 78 

Good Words, . . . 46 

Anon., . . . .53 

Harper's Young People, . 69 
Anon , .... 37 
Will Carleton, ... 22 

Susan Coolidge, . . 64 

Marianne Farningham, . 12 

Anon., . . .73 

Elaine Goodale, . . 34 

Wm. Cullen Bryant, . . 78 

Hamilton W. Mabie, . . 60 

Nathan G. Shepherd, . 72 

Anon, . . . .61 

Watchman, . . .60 

Anon., . . . .16 

Anon., . . . .36 

Bayard Taylor, . .54 



Concert Recitations. 



Cavalry Song, 

Songs of the Seasons. . 

Song of the Steamer Engine, 

Summer Storm, 

The Cataract of Lodore, 

The Charge at W T aterloo, 

The Child on the Judgment Seat 

The Coming of Spring, 

The Death of Our Almanac, 

The Good Time Coming, 

The Sorrow of the Sea, 

The Two Glasses, 

Two Epitaphs, 



Edmund C Stedman, 


. 107 


Meta E. B. Thorne, . 


. 85 


C. B. LeRow, 


. 92 


James Russell Lowell, 


. 91 


Robert Southey, 


. 105 


Walter Scott, . 


. 90 


E. Charles, 


. 95 


Wilhelm Muller, 


. 87 


Henry Ward Beecher, 


. 100 


Charles Mackay, 


. 88 


Anon., 


. 98 


Anon.. 


. 97 


From the German, . 


. 104 



Selections for Musical Accompaniment. 



A Winter Song, 

Hope's Song 

Rock of Ages, 

The Angelus 

The Concert Rehearsal, 

The Sunrise Never Failed Us Yet, 



St. Nicholas, 


. 110 


Helen M. Winslow, 


. 109 


Ella Maud Moore, 


. 113 


Frances L. Mace, 


. 108 


Wolstan Dixey, 


. Ill 


Celia Thaxter, . 


. 110 



POETS' BIRTHDAYS. 



Willian Cullen Bryant. 



A Bryant Alphabet, 
Extract concerning Bryant, 



Green River, .... 
The Hurricane, 
The Night Journey of a River, 
The Third of November, 
The Violet, .... 
To William Cullen Bryant, . 



Compiler, . 
Rev. Henry W. Bellows, 
John Bigelow, . 
George William Curtis, 
Edwin P. Whipple, . 
William Cullen Bryant, 



Fitz- 



Greene Halleck 



117 
116 
115 
116 
116 
123 
122 
121 
121 
123 
115 



Contents. 



Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



TITLE. 

Art 

An Emerson Alphabet, 
Emerson, .... 

Extract concerning Emerson, 



" from M Compensation/' 
u u t . works and Days, 

The Concord Fight, 

The Rhodora, 



Ralph Waldo Emerson, . 
Compiler, .... 
Elizabeth C. Kinney, 
Rev. C. A. Bartol. . 
George Willis Cooke, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, . 
Protap Chunder Mozoomdar, 
Horace E. Scudder, . 
Ralph Waldo Emerson, . 



131 
126 

124 
125 
125 
125 
120 
124 
1*9 
180 
130 
131 



Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



A Holmes Alphabet, 
Extract concerning Holmes, 



International Ode, 

James Russell Lowell's Birthday Festival, 

Our Autocrat, .... 

The Two Streams, 

Under the Washington Elm, 



Compiler, . 
George William Curtis, 
Charles W. Eliot, 
Win. Sloane Kennedy, 
Rev. Ray Palmer, 
Frances H. Underwood, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 

John G. Whittier, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 



. 135 
. 134 
. 133 
. 134 
. 133 
. 133 
. 140 
. 141 
. 132 
. 140 
. 139 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



A Longfellow Alphabet, 

Charles Sumner, 

Extract concerning Longfellow, 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 
Loss and Gain, 
Musings, .... 

The City and the Sea, . 



Compiler, 144 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 150 
George William Curtis, . . 143 
Rev. O. B. Frothingham, . 143 

Rev. M. J. Savage, . ■ .144 
Richard H. Stoddard, . . 143 
John G. Whittier, . . .142 
William W. Story, . . .142 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 149 
148 
149 



James Russell Lowell. 



Abraham Lincoln, 
A Lowell Alphabet, 
Extract concerning Lowell, 



Freedom, .... 
The First Snowfall, 
To James Russell Lowell, 
Wendell Phillips. 





James Russell Lowell, 


. 159 




Compiler, 


. 154 




David W. Bartlett, . 


. 153 




Rev. H. R. Haweis, . 


. 153 




North British Review, 


. 152 




W. C. Wilkinson, . 


. 153 




Frances H. Underwood, 


. 152 




James Russell Lowell, 


. 100 
. 157 
. 151 




Oliver Wendell Holmes, 




James Russell Lowell,. 


. 159 



John Greenleaf Whittier. 



A Whittier Alphabet, 
Extract concerning Whittier, 



Compiler, . 
John Bright, 



103 
103 



Contents. 



TITLE. 

Extract concerning Whit tier 



My Country, . 

The Light that is Felt, . 

The Moral Warfare, 

To Children of Girard, Pa., 

1827-1885. 

John G. Whittier, 



AUTHOR. 

Horace E. Scudder, . 
Richard H. Stoddard, 
Frances H. Underwood, . 
Rev. David A. Wasson, 
John Greenleaf Whittier, 



James Russell Lowell, 



PAGE 

. 162 

. 162 
. 161 
, 162 
. 168 
. 170 
. 167 
. 167 
. 168 
. 161 



Between the Graves, 
Decoration Day, 
Decoration Hymn, 
Flowers for the Brave, 
Memorial Day, 
Red, White, and Blue, 
The Heroes' Day, 



Decoration Day. 



Harriet Prescott Spofford, . 172 

Henry W. Longfellow, . . 171 

William H. Randall, . . 175 

Celia Thaxter, . . .175 

Margaret Sidney. . . . 176 

Harriet McEwen Kimball, . 173 

Harper's Weekly, . . .174 



Thanksgiving. 



Elsie's Thanksgiving, 
How the Pilgrims Gave Thanks, 
Thanksgiving, .... 
Thanksgiving Day, . 
Thanksgiving among the Greeks, 
Thanksgiving for His House, 
Thanksgiving among the Jews, 
Thanksgiving Ode. 
Thanksgivings of Old, . 
The First Boston Thanksgiving, 
The First English Thanksgiving, 
The First National Thanksgiving, 
Washington's Proclamation, 



Margaret E. Sangster, 

Anon , 

William D. Howells, 

The Advance, . 

Anon., 

Robert Herrick, 

Anon., 

John G. Whittier, . 

E. A. Smuller, . 

Hezekiah Butterworth, 

Anon, .... 

.Anon, .... 



186 
180 
185 
178 
178 
184 
179 
185 
187 
182 
179 
181 
181 



Christmas. 

A Christmas Question, .... Rev. Minot J. Savage, 

A Christmas Thought about Dickens, Bertha S. Scranton, . 

Christmas Bells Henry W. Longfellow, 

Christmas in Olden Time, . . . Walter Scott, 

Christmas Roses, May Riley Smith, 

The Day of Days, Anon., 

The Little Mud Sparrows, . . . Eliz. Stuart Phelps, . 

The Nativity, Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 

The Star in the West, .... Hezekiah Butterworth, 

Wings, Dinah Mulock Craik, 



197 
190 
201 
189 
202 
188 
195 
200 
192 
199 



New- Year's. 

Address to the New Year, . . . Dinah Mulock Craik, 

A New Year, Margaret E Sangster, 

Another Year, Nathaniel P. Willis, 

A Wish Margaret Veley, 

The Child and the Year, . , . Celia Thaxter, . 



203 
203 
205 
205 
206 



The Seasons. 



A Song of Waking, 
December, 
Early Spring, 



Katharine Lee Bates, . . 207 
Louisa Parsons Hopkins, . 215 
Alfred Tennyson, . . .208 



Contents. 



TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE 

Faded Leaves, Alice Carv, . . . .219 

Frost Work, Mary E. Bradley, . . .217 

Golden Rod Lucy Larcom 210 

Indian Summer, John G. Whittier, . . .211 

January, Rosaline E. Jones, . . .210 

June, Travelers' Record, . . . 210 

May, (rood Cheer 209 

November, Hartley Coleridge, . . . 214 

October William Cullen Bryant, . .212 

September, 1815, William Wordsworth, . . 212 

Winter, Robert Southey, . . .214 



Flowers. 



A Bunch of Cowslips, . 
Chrysanthemums, 
Daffodils, .... 

Ferns, 

No Flowers, .... 
Ragged Sailors, 

Roses, 

Sweet Peas, .... 
The Message of the Snowdrop, 
The Trailing Arbutus, . 



Anon., 

Mary E Dodge, 

Robert Herrick, 

Anon., 

Anon., 

Anon., 

Anon., 

St. Nicholas, 

Anon., 

John G. Whittier. 



221 
223 
222 
219 
218 
224 
223 
2>0 
224 
221 



Dialogues. 



Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet, 
Diogenes and Plato on Pride, 
Lorna Doone, . 
Metaphysics, . 
Mistress and. Maid, 
Ninety-Three, 
Pilgrim's Progress, 
Put Yourself in His Place, 
Queen Isabella's Resolve, 
Ruth Hall, 

The Hills of the Shatemuc, 
The Mill on the Floss, . 
The Last Days of Pompeii, 
The Queen's Necklace, 
The Musical Instrument, 
Work: A Story of Experience 



Charles Kingsley, 

T. A. Bland, 

R. D. Blackmore, 

Anon 

Dinah Mulock Craik, 
Victor Hugo, 
John Bunyan, . 
Charles Reade, 
Epes Sargent, 
Fanny Fern. 
Elizabeth Wetherell, 
George Eliot, 
Edward Bulwer Lytton, 
Alexander Dumas, . 
Anon., .... 
Louisa M. Alcott, 



247 
238 
240 
, 249 
233 
254 
245 
243 
227 
227 
231 
229 
235 
225 
242 
251 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Alcott, Louisa M., . , .251 
Arnold, Edwin, . . . .30 

Barr, Mary A 62 

Bartlett, David W., . . .153 
Bartol, Rev. C. A., . . . 125 
Bates, Katharine Lee, . . . 207 
Beecher, Rev. Henry Ward, . 100 
Bellows, Rev. Henry W., . .11(5 
Bioelow, John, . . . .115 
Blackmore. R. D., . . . . 240 

Bland, T. A., 238 

Boyd, Rev. A. K. H., . . .13 
Bradley, Mary E., . . 82, 217 
Bright, John, . . . .163 

Bryant, William Cullen, 78, 121, 122, 
123, 212 
Bunyan, John, . . . .245 

Burnham, Anna F., . . .25 
Butterworth, Hezekiah, . 182, 192 
Butts, Mary Frances, . . 29 

Carleton, Will, . . . .22 

Gary, Alice, 213 

Charles, E . .95 

Coleridge, Hartley, . . .214 
Collyer, Rev. Robert, . . 51 

Cooke, George Willis, . . 125 
Coolidge, Susan, . . .24, 64 
Craik, Dinah Mulock, . 199, 203, 233 
Curtis, George Wm., . 116, 134, 143 

Cutler, J. S 76 

Dewey, Rev. Orville, 

DlXEY, WOLSTAN, . . . .111 

Dodge, Mary E., . . . . 223 

Dumas, Alexander, . . . 225 

Eliot, Charles W., . . . 133 

Eliot, George, .... 229 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 129, 130, 131 

Farningham, Marianne, 

Fern, Fanny, . 

Fields, James T., . 

Frothingham, Rev. O. B., 

Garfield, James A., 

Gates, Ellen M. H., 

Gellert, Christian, 

Goodale, Dora, 

Goodale, Elaine, . 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene, 

Handy, M. P., . 

Haweis, Rev. H. R., 

Hemans, Felicia, . 

Herrick, Robert, . 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 



Hopkins, Louisa Parsons, 
Howells, William D., . 
Hugo, Victor, 
Jackson, Helen Hunt, 
Jewett, Ella, 
Jones, Rosaline E., 
Kennedy, Wm. Sloane, 
Kimball, Harriet McEwen 
Kingsley, Charles, 
Kinney, Elizabeth C, , 



12, 15 

227 

155 

143 

74 

21 

67 

49 

34 

115 



. 153 

. 78 

184,222 

125, 139, 

140, 141, 151 



200, 215 
185 
254 
79 
44 
216 
134 
173 
247 
124 



PAGE 

Larcom, Lucy, .... 210 
Lawrence, Kate, . . . .77 
LeRow, C. B., . . . . . 92 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 

148,149,150, 171,201 
Lowell, James Russell, 91,157, 159, 
160, 161 
Lytton, E. Bulwer, . . .235 
Mabie, Hamilton W., . . .60 
Mace, Frances L , . . . .108 
Mackay, Charles, . . . .188 
Mann, Horace, . . . .39 
Miller, Emily H., . . . .42 

Miller, Joaquin 74 

Moore, Ella Maud. . . .113 
Mozoomdar, Protap Chunder, . 126 
Muller, Wilhelm, . . .87 

Orne, C. F., 18 

Palmer, Rev. Ray, . . .133 
Peeke, Maggie B., . . . 55, 59 
Perry, Carlotta, . . . .50 
Phelps, Eliz. Stuakt, . . .195 
Pollard, Josephine, . . 14, 48 
Preston, Margaret J., . .40 
Randall, Wm. H., . . . . 175 
Reade, Charles, .... 243 
Rexford, Eben E., . . .57 
Sangster, Margaret E., . 186, 203 
Sargent, Epes, .... 227 
Sargent, Helen Lee, . . .26 
Savage, Rev. Minot J., . 144, 197 
Scott, Walter, . . .90, 189 
Scranton. Bertha S., . . . 190 
Scudder, Horace E., . .124, 162 
Shepherd, Nathan G., . . .72 
Shurtleff, Ernest W., . . 35 
Sidney, Margaret, . . .176 

Smith, May Riley 202 

Smith, Rev. Sydney, ... 17 
Smuller, E. A., . . . .187 
Southey, Robert, . . . 105, 214 
Spofford, Harriet Prescott, . 172 



Stedman, Edmund C , 
Stoddard. Richard H., 
Story, William W., 
Taylor, Bayard, . 
Tennyson, Alfred, 
Thaxter, Celia, 
Thompson. Phillips, 
Thorne. Meta E. B , 



Underwood, Frances H., 133, 152, 161 



Veley, Margaret, 
Washington, George, . 
Wasson. Rev. David A., 
Wetherell, Elizabeth, 
Whipple, Edwin P., 
Whittier, John Greenleaf, 
167, 168, V 
Whitney, Adeline D. T., 
Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 
Willis, Nathaniel P., . 
Winslow, Helen M., 
Wordsworth, Wm., 



107 

143, 162 

66, 142 

. 54 

. 208 

110,175,206 

27 

85 



. 205 

71, 181 

. 162 

. 231 

. 116 

132, 142, 

185, 221 

. 32 

. 35 

. 208 

. 109 

41,212 



Practical Recitations. 



MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 



After Vacation. 



Again they muster from the far-off hillside, 
From country farm-house and from sea-girt shore ; 

Their tramping feet resound along the highways, 
Their gleeful shouts ring on the air once more. 

A merry band, so full of youth's elixir, 

How can their restless spirits e'er essay 
The tasks that wait their patient, steady labor 

After the long, bright, summer holiday? 

Not now, children, in the sunny meadow's 
Ye cull the flowers or by the brooklets stray, 

But in the fields of knowledge, thick with blossoms, 
To gather sweets for a far future day. 

Here, too, you roam a land of fairest promise, 
Watered by many a stream of limpid hue, 

Where weary travelers find a sweet refreshment 
And garner richest stores of old and new. 

We bid thee welcome to the homes that missed thee, 
To the deserted school-room's open door. 

The nation's hope is in thee, keep thy birthright; 
Thine heritage is more than golden store. 

The Kingdom of Home. 



12 Practical Recitations. 



The People's Holidays. 

Marianne Farningham. 

Not alone for the rich and great 
Are the beautiful works of God; 

The mountain's slopes and the ocean's beach 
By the people's feet are trod, 

And the poor man's children sing and dance 
On the green flower-covered sod. 

Not alone for the cultured eyes 
Do the sweet flowers spring and grow; 

There is scarcely living a man so poor 
But he may their sweetness know; 

And out of the town to the fresh fair fields 
The toilers all can go. 

Away from the factory shop and desk, 
Where the diligent work in throngs, 

They go sometimes to the well-earned rest 
That to faithful zeal belongs ; 

And the shore and the forest welcome them, 
And the larks pour down their songs. 

" Man does not live by bread alone," 

And well it needs must be 
That we all should look on our Father's works 

By the river and lake and sea, 
And spend our souls in adoring praise, 

For He careth for you and me. 

And well may all with a stronger hand, 

And a braver, truer heart, 
Go back to the task that God has given, 

And faithfully do our part ; 
And bear in our souls the peace of the fields, 

To the counter, the desk, and the mart. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 13 

Home Lights. 

The light of June that shines on tremulous 1. 

Of softest green, how fair a thing toe 

When shafts of dawn touch birch and maple tree, 

Or sunset's hour a mesh of magic weavt - ; 

The diamond light that flashes on the sea 

In August noons, — a dazzle of pure rays. 

With lovely ground of blue, whereon we gaze 

From cliff or sandy shore in ecsta-y: 

The light that blazes on the mountain way. 

Or, strained to pallor, steals to lonely dells; 

None are forgotten on this autumn day, 

As with sweet memories the glad heart swells: 

But as the October sun drops down the west. 

We say with smiling lips. Home lights are best. 



Concerning Beginnings and Ends. 

Rev. A. K. H. Boyd. 

We cannot bear a very long, uniform look-out. It is 
an unspeakable blessing that we can stop and start again 
in everything. The journey that crushes us down 
when we contemplate it as one long weary thing can be 
borne when we divide it into stages. And one great les- 
son of practical wisdom is to train ourselves to mentally 
divide everything into stages. It would crush down any 
man's resolution if he saw in one glance the whole enor- 
mous bulk of labor which he will get through in a life- 
time. And yet you know, and the little child knows 
just as well, that after he has conquered that tremen- 
dous alphabet, he must begin again with something else, 
he must mount from his first little book onwards and 
upwards into the fields of knowledge and learning. Let 
us, if we are wise men, hold by the grand principle of 
step by step. 



14 Practical Recitations. 

A Strange Experience. 

Josephine Pollard. 
They took the little London girl from out the city street 
To where the grass was growing green, the birds were singing 

sweet; 
And everything along the road so filled her with surprise, 
The look of wonder fixed itself within her violet eyes. 

The breezes ran to welcome her; they kissed her on each cheek, 
And tried in every way they could their ecstasy to speak, 
Inviting her to romp with them, and tumbling up her curls, 
Expecting she would laugh or scold, like other little girls. 

But she did not ; no, she could not ; for this crippled little 

child 
Had lived within a dingy court where sunshine never smiled, 
And for weary, weary days and months the little one had lain 
Confined within a narrow room, and on a couch of pain. 

The out-door world was strange to her — the broad expanse of 

sky, 

The soft, green grass, the pretty flowers, the stream that 

trickled by; 
But all at once she saw a sight that made her hold her breath, 
And shake and tremble as if she were frightened near to death. 

Oh, like some horrid monster of which the child had dreamed, 
With nodding head and waving arms, the angry creature 

seemed; 
It threatened her, it mocked at her, with gestures and grimace 
That made her shrink with terror from its serpent- like em- 
brace. 

They kissed the trembling little one, they held her in their 

arms, 
And tried in every way they could to quiet her alarms, 
And said, u Oh, what a foolish little goose you are to be 
So nervous and so terrified at nothing but a tree!" 



Miscellaneous Selections, 15 

They made her go up close to it, and put her arms around 

The trunk and see how firmly it was fastened in the ground; 
They told her all about the roots that clung down deeper yet, 
And spoke of other curious things she never would forget. 

Oh, I have heard of many, very many girls and boys 
Who have to do without the sight of pretty books and toys, 
AVho have never seen the ocean; but the saddest thought to me 
Is that anywhere there lives a child who never saw a tree. 



The Daily Task. 

Marianne Farningham. 
The morning light falls gently on the eyes 

And wakes the sleeping men; 
And bids them rise and haste to meet the day, 

And find their work again. 

No one is asked to choose what he will do, 

Or take the task loved best, 
For God allots the places, and each one 

Obeys His high behest. 

One, loving silence, passes to the street 

And mingles with the crowd, 
And finds his daily work awaiting him, 

Where noise is long and loud. 

And one who hungers for the voice and touch 

Of others in the gloom 
Is ordered to withdraw from all, and work 

Alone within one room. 

Another, loving beauty, air, and light, 

Passes in sordid ways, 
And uncongenial sights, and jarring sounds, 

The hours of his best days. 



16 Practical Recitations. 

And yet another who could love all work, 

And do it thankfully, 
Has naught to do but suffer and be still 

In patience, perfectly. 

Are, then, the workers at their daily tasks 

Unhappy and unblest ? 
Nay; He who chooses for them gives the wage 

Of happiness and rest. 

The feet pass swiftly to the place of toil, 

The lips break into song, 
And ready hands receive the allotted task, 

Nor find the hours too long. 

Because the loyal heart is true to God, 

And the deft hand obeys 
The Master, who decides what each shall do, 

Joy fills the working days. 

And so, if but the soul be leal, the task 

Itself becomes more dear, 
And every worker finds that work well done 

Is w x ork that brings good cheer. 



'What's the Lesson for To-day?" 

Little Bess, with laughing eyes, 
Brightly blue as summer skies, 
Came to me one morn in May, 
Asking in her eager way, 
" What's the lesson for to-day V 

And I told her, then and there, 
What I wished her to prepare. 
But new meaning (strange to say), 
In the childish query lay, 
" What's the lesson for to-day?" 



Miscellaneous Selections, 17 



And I pondered o'er and o'er 

What I scarce had thought before, - 

As I went my wonted way, 
Towards my duty, sad or gay, 
k * What's my lesson for the day?" 

Students in the school of life, 
'Mid its struggles and its strife, 
Let us ask, in childlike way, 
Of the Teacher we obey, 
k - What's the lesson for to-day?" 

And the answer God will give, 
He will show us how to live. 
Teach us of His perfect way, 
Grant us wisdom that we may 
Learn the lesson of the day. 



Moral Courage. 

Rev. Sydney Smith. 
A great deal of talent is lost in the world for the want 
of a little courage. The fact is, that to do anything in 
this world worth doing, w^e must not stand back shiver- 
ing, and thinking of the cold and the danger, but jump 
in and scramble through as well as we can. It will not 
do to be perpetually calculating tasks, and adjusting 
nice chances ; it did very well before the flood, where a 
man could consult his friends upon an intended publi- 
cation for an hundred and fifty years, and then live to 
see its success afterwards : but at present, a man waits 
and doubts and hesitates, and consults his brother and 
his uncle and particular friends, till one fine day he 
finds that he is sixty years of age ; that he has lost so 
much time in consulting his first cousin and particular 
friends, that he has no more time to follow their advice. 
2 



18 Practical Recitations. 

No Work the Hardest Work. 

Charles F. Orne. 
Ho! ye who at the anvil toil, 

And strike the sounding blow, 
Where from the burning iron's breast 

The sparks fly to and fro, 
While answering to the hammer's ring, 

And fire's intenser glow — 
Oh, while ye feel 'tis hard to toil 

And sweat the long day through, 
Eemember it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 

Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil, 

Whose hard hands guide the plow; 
Who bend beneath the summer sun 

With burning cheek and brow — 
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth 

From olden time till now; 
But while ye feel 'tis hard to toil 

And labor all day through, 
Eemember it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 

Ho! ye who plow the sea's blue field, 

Who ride the restless wave; 
Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel 

There lies a yawning grave; 
Around whose bark the wintry winds 

Like fiends of fury rave — 
Oh, while ye feel 'tis hard to toil 

And labor long hours through, 
Eemember it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 

Ho! all who labor, all who strive, 

Ye wield a mighty power; 
Do with your might, do with your strength, 

Fill every golden hour; 



Miscellaneous Selections, 19 

The glorious privilege to do 

Is man's most noble dower. 
Oh, to your birthright and yourselves. 

To your own souls be I rue! 
A weary, wretched life is theirs 

Who have no work to do. 



Some Old School-books. 

I have been back to my home again. 

To the place where I was born; 
I have heard the wind from the stormy main 

Go rustling through the corn; 
I have seen the purple hills once more; 

I have stood on the rocky coast 
Where the waves storm inland to the shore; 

But the thing that touched me most 

Was a little leather strap that kept 

Some school-books, tattered and torn! 
I sighed, I smiled, 1 could have wept 

When I came on them one morn; 
For I thought of the merry little lad, 

In the mornings sweet and cool, 
If weather was good, or weather bad, 

Going whistling off to school. 

My fingers undid the strap again, 

And I thought how my hand had changed, 
And half in longing, and half in pain, 

Backward my memory ranged. 
There was the grammar I knew so well, — 

I didn't remember a rule; 
And the old blue speller, — I used to spell 

Better than any in school; 



20 Practical Recitations. 

And the wonderful geography 

I've read on the green hill-side, 
When I've told myself I'd surely see 

All lands in the world so wide, 
From the Indian homes in the far, far West, 

To the mystical Cathay. 
I have seen them all. But Home is best 

When the evening shades fall gray. 

And there was the old arithmetic, 

All tattered and stained with tears; 
I and Jamie and little Dick 

Were together in by-gone years. 
Jamie has gone to the better land; 

And I get now and again, 
A letter in Dick's bold, ready hand, 

From some great Western plain. 

There wasn't a book, and scarce a page, 

That hadn't some memory 
Of days that seemed like a golden age, 

Of friends I shall no more see. 
And so I picked up the books again 

And buckled the strap once more, 
And brought them over the tossing main; 

Come, children, and look them o'er. 

And there they lie on a little stand 

Not far from the Holy Book; 
And his boys and girls with loving care 

O'er grammar and speller look. 
He said, " They speak to me, children dear, 

Of a past without alloy; 
And the look of Books, in promise clear, 

Of a future full of joy." 

Harper's Weekly. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 21 

Their Cost. 
Ellen M. B. Gates. 
How cheap are the things which are bought and sold, 
The beautiful things which the hands can hold, 
Whatever is purchased with silver and gold. 

The merchants are calling and filling their rooms 
With jewels and laces and rarest perfumes, 
And wonderful webs from the Indian looms. 

The price of the treasures is small, as they say; 
For dollars and cents, are exchanged every day 
The furs of the North-land, the silks of Cathay. 

But, oh! the rare things which can never be brought 
From the far-away countries, but still must be sought 
Through working and waiting and anguish of thought! 

The patience that comes to the heart, as it tries 
To hear, through all discord and turbulent cries, 
The songs of the armies that march to the skies; 

The courage that fails not, nor loses its breath 
In stress of the battle, but smilingly saith, 
" I'll measure my strength with disaster and death;" 

The love that through doubting and pain will increase; 
The longing and restlessness, calmed into peace 
That is perfect and satisfied, never to cease — 

These, these are the dear things. No king on his throne 
Can buy them away from the poor and unknown 
Who make them, through labor or anguish, their own. 



A true life must be simple in all its elements. — Hor- 
ace Greeley. 



Practical Recitations. 



The Old Reading Class. 

Will Carleton. 
I. 
I cannot tell you, Genevieve, how oft it comes to me — 
That rather young old reading class in District Number Three, 
That row of elocutionists who stood so straight in line, 
And charged at standard literature with amiable design. 
We did not spare the energy in which our words were clad! 
We gave the meaning of the text by all the light we had; 
But still I fear the ones who wrote the lines we read so free 
Would scarce have recognized their work in District Number 
Three. 

II. 

Outside, the snow was smooth and clean — the winter's thick- 
laid dust; 

The storm, it made the windows speak at every sudden gust; 

Bright sleigh-bells threw us pleasant words when travelers 
would pass; 

The maple-trees along the road stood shivering in their class; 

Beyond, the white-browed cottages were nestling cold and 
dumb, 

And far away the mighty world seemed beckoning us to come — 

The wondrous world, of which we conned what had been and 
might be, 

In that old-fashioned reading class of District Number Three. 

III. 

We took a hand at History — its altars, spires and flames — 
And uniformly mispronounced the most important names; 
We wandered through Biography, and gave our fancy play, 
And with some subjects fell in love — "good only for one 

day;" 
In Romance and Philosophy we settled many a point, 
And made what poems we assailed to creak at every joint; 
And many authors that we love, you with me will agree, 
Were first time introduced to us in District Number Three. 



Miscettam cms & 1a ctions. 23 



IV. 
You recollect Susannah Smith, the teach 
Who never stopped at any pause — a sort of day express I 
And timid young Sylvester Jon.--, of inconsistent right, 

Who stumbled on the easy words and read the hard ones right? 
And Jennie Green, whose doleful voice was always clothed in 
black ? 

And Samuel Hicks, whose tones induced the plastering all to 

. crack ? 
And Andrew Tubbs, whose various mouths were quite a show 
to Si 

Alas! we cannot find them now in District Number Three. 

V. 
And Jasper Jenckes. whose tears would flow at each pathetic 

word 
fHe\s in the prize-fight business now, and hits them hard, I've 

heard); 
And Benny Bayne. whose every tone he murmured as in fear 
(His tongue is not so timid now: he is an auction* 
And Lanty Wood, whose voice was just endeavoring hard to ' 

change, 
And leaped from hoarse to fiercely shrill with most surprising 

range; 
Also his sister Mary Jane, so full of prudish glee. 
Alas! they're both in higher schools than District Number 

Three. 

VI. 
So back these various voices come, though long the years have 

grown. 
And sound uncommonly distinct through Memory's telephone; 
And some are full of melody, and bring a sense of ch< 
And some can smite the rock of time, and summon forth a tear: 
But one sweet voice comes back to me, whenever sad I grt 
And sings a song, and that is yours, peerless Genevieve! 
It brightens up the olden times, and tin oik at me — 

A silver star amid the clouds of District Number Thn 



24 Practical Recitations, 

Forward. 

Susan Coolidge. 
Let me stand still upon the height of life; 

Much has been won, though much there is to win; 
I am a little weary of the strife. 

Let me stand still awhile, nor count it sin 
To cool my hot brow, ease the travel-pain, 
And then address me to the road again. 

Long was the way, and steep and hard the climb; 

Sore are my limbs, and fain I am to rest; 
Behind me lie long sandy tracks of time; 

Before me rises the steep mountain crest. 
Let me stand still; the journey is half done, 
And when less weary I will travel on. 

There is no standing still! Even as I pause 
The steep path shifts and I slip back apace; 

Movement was safety; by the journey laws 
No help is given, no safe abiding-place, 

No idling in the pathway hard and slow; 

I must go forward, or must backward go! 

I will go up then, though the limbs may tire, 
And though the path be doubtful and unseen; 

Better with the last effort to expire 
Than lose the toil and struggle that have been, 

And have the morning strength, the upward strain, 

The distance conquered, in the end made vain. 

Ah, blessed law! for rest is tempting sweet, 
And we would all lie down if so we might; 

And few would struggle on with b^c^ing feet ; 
And few would ever gain the h'gher height 

Except for the stern law which bids us know 

We must go forward, or must backward go. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 25 

Her Angel. 

Anna F. Burnham. 

Margery cowered and crouched in the door of the beautiful 

porch. 
There were beautiful people in there, and they all belonged to 

the church. 
But Margery waited without; she did not belong anywhere 

Except in the dear Lord's bosom, who taketh the children there. 

And through the open doorway came floating a lovely sound; 
She shut her eyes and imagined how the angels stood around 
With their harps like St. Cecilia's in the picture on the wall — 
Ah, Margery did not doubt that so looked the singers all. 

" Suffer the little children!" sang a heavenly voice somewhere, 
Or the soul of a voice that was winging away in the upper air; 
" Let the children come to me!" sang the angel in her place, 
And Margery, listening, stood, with upturned eyes and face. 

" Let them come! let them come to me!" And up the aisle 

she sped 
With eyes that sought for the Voice, to follow where it led. 
She did not say to herself: " I'm coming! Wait for me!" 
But it shone in her face, and it leaped in her eyes, dear Margery ! 

Up the stair to the singer she ran, she touched the hem of her 

dress. 
But the choir were bending their heads, the preacher had 

risen to bless 
The reverent throng, and alas! bewildered Margery, 
The Voice has ceased, and the singers have turned their eyes 

on thee. 

They look with surprise at her feet, and again at her ragged 

gown, 
And one by one they pass with a careless smile or a frown; 
But the sweetest face bent near, and — " I came," said Margery, 
4 'For I thought 'twas an angel sang, 'Let the children come 

to me! ' " 



26 . Practical Recitations, 

With a tender sigh the singer took the ehild upon her knee; 
' ' I sang the words for the dear Lord Christ, my Margery, 
And so, for the dear Lord Christ, T take thee home with me! 
— M It was an angel sang!" sobs little Margery. 



Are the Heroes Dead? 

Helen Lee Sargent. 

"We are low, — we are base!" sigh the singers, 
" The heroes have long been dead! 
The times have fallen, — the state is sick, 

And the glory of earth has fled! 
Sordid and selfish on every side 

Walk the men and the women we know. 
Downward we tend continually, 
And faster and faster go!" 

Shame to ye, shame to ye, singers! 

And have ye never known 
That the soul of man has been ever the same 

Since the sun of heaven shone? 
If ye listen and look for the heroes, 

Ye will find them everywhere; 
But if ye look for the knaves and scamps — 

It is true they are not rare. 

But whenever a ship is lost at sea, 

Or a building burns on land, 
Amid the terror and death and loss 

A hero is found at hand. 
And if ever a war should come again 

(From it long may we be freed!) 
Ye will find the heroes, as ever before, 

Kesponding to the need. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 27 

Failed ! 

a poem of hard times. 

Phillips Thompson. 

Failed! Jim Miserton failed! You don't mean to say it's so? 

Had it from Smith at the Bank ? Well, he's a man that should 

know. 
Forty-two cents on the dollar ? I cannot believe my ears. 
There's no such thing as judging a man by the way he appears. 

Yes, you may well say "failed;" there's more than the term 

implies, 
When all there is of a man in a hopeless ruin lies. 
To come after twenty years of a stubborn up-hill strife, 
It isn't a business smash so much as a failure in life. 

Gold was always his god — he'd nothing else in his soul; 
Money, for money's sake, was ever his ultimate goal. 
A " self-made man" they styled him, for low and poor he be- 
gan; 
But now his money has vanished, and what is left of the man ? 

He had no eye for beauty, for literature no taste; 
Buying pictures or books he counted a shameful waste. 
Nothing he cared for art or the poet's elaborate rhymes; 
His soul was only attuned to the musical jingle of dimes. 

Selfish, exacting, and stern, a hand he would treat like a 

slave; 
Long were his hours of toil, and scanty the pay that he gave ; 
Made of cast-iron himself, his zeal in the struggle for gold 
Left him no pity to spare for those of a different mold. 

Never a cent for the poor, for the naked never a stitch; 
'Twas all their fault, he would say; they should save like him, 

and grow rich. 
Now and then to a church he'd forward a liberal amount, 
Duly set down in his books to the advertising account. 



28 Practical Recitations, 



So he succeeded, of course, and piled his coffers with wealth, 
Missing pleasure and culture, losing vigor and health; 
Now he's down at the bottom, exactly where he began; 
Even his gold has vanished, and what is left of the man ? 

A self-made man, indeed ! then we owe no honor to such; 

The genuine self-made man you cannot honor too much; 

But be sure what you make is a man — with a heart, and a 

soul, and a mind, 
Not merely a pile of dollars, that goes, leaving nothing behind. 



Labor. 

Eev. Orville Dewey. 
To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler 
should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theater of im- 
provement. But so he is not impelled to do, under the 
teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, 
he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his 
idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the 
absurd and unjust feudal system under which serfs la- 
bored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and 
feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were 
done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou ? Ashamed of 
thy dingy work-shop and dusty labor-field ; of thy hard 
hand scarred with service more honorable than that of 
war ; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on 
which Mother Nature has embroidered, midst sun and 
rain, midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors ? 
Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the 
flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity ? It is 
treason to nature ; it is impiety to Heaven ; it is break- 
ing Heaven's great ordinance. Toil, I repeat — toil, 
either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the 
only true manhood, the only true nobility. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 29 

The Holy Place. 
Mary Frances Butts. 

The people came to the priest, 

" Good father," said they, 
k * We love the holy altar 

Where we kneel to pray; 
We would 'broider a cloth 

Of fine silk and wool 
To cover the altar, 

For our hearts are full." 

" My children," said the priest, 
"When the heart is full, 
Spend not its treasure 

In fine silk and wool. 
Listen, my children, 

Do you hear a moan ? 
'Tis the poor man waiting, 

Sick and alone. 

u His darlings ask in vain 
For a piece of bread; 
And what thinks the Lord ?" 
The good priest said. 
" The tender-hearted Christ 
Would be very wroth 
Should you leave his poor 
For an altar-cloth. 

" He blesses the holy altar 
Where we kneel to pray; 
But in the silence 
I hear him say: 
" Seek me, my children, 
In works of grace; 
Where you comfort a heart 
Is the holy place." 



30 Practical Recitations. 



(I i 



A Discourse of Buddha. 

Edwin Arnold. 
Herewith a broken beam of Buddha's lore, 
One raylet of his glorious gift of light, 
Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is down 
Such space that men may find a path thereby. 

A priest questioned him: 
Which is Life's chief good, Master ? ' And he spake: 

1 ' ' Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming, 
From whereso'er they fall; 
Some take their rest beneath the holy temple, 
Some by the prison wall. 

" ' The king's gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight, 
So doth the dyer's shed! 
Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows ? ' 
' They are alike! ' one said. 

" ' So is it,' quoth he, ' with all shows or living; 
As shadows fall, they fall! 
Rest under, if ye must, but question not 
Which is the best of all. 

' ' ' Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragrance 
Of fruit and bloom o'erhead; 
And some are evil, bearing fruitless branches 
Whence poisonous air is spread. 

" ' Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must, 
Right shelter from life's heat; 
Lo! these do well who toil for wife and child 
Threading the burning street. 

" * Good is it helping kindred! good to dwell 
Blameless and just to all; 
Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart, 
Albeit the store be small! 



Miscellaneous Selections. ,31 

41 'Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to be 
Merciful, patient, and mild; 
To hear the law and keep it, leading days 
Innocent, undefiled. 

k ' ' These the chief goods — for evil by its like 
Ends not, nor hate by hate; 
By love hate eeaseth, by well-doing ill, 
By knowledge life's dark state. 

" ' Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wings 
Which cleave the blue, cool skies! 
What shadow needetli that proud Lord of Air 
To shield his fearless eyes ? 

" ' Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinions 
Heart free and great as his! 
The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wise 
Greater or lesser bliss! ' " 



We are unwilling walkers. We are not innocent and 
simple-hearted enough to enjoy a walk. We have fallen 
from that state of grace which capacity to enjoy a walk 
implies. It cannot be said that as a people w r e are so 
positively sad or morose as that we are vacant of that 
sportiveness of animal spirits that characterized our an- 
cestors, and that springs from full and harmonious life, 
— a sound heart in accord with a sound body. A man 
must invest himself near at hand, and in common things, 
and be content with a steady and moderate return, if he 
would know the blessedness of a cheerful heart, and the 
sweetness of a walk over the round earth. This is a les- 
son the American has yet to learn, — capability of amuse- 
ment on a low key. — Johx Burroughs. 



32 Practical Recitations. 

To fill the youthful mind with lofty and noble ideas, 
to stock the memory with the richest vocabulary, and to 
acquire a wide command of our grand English language, 
we have nothing better, except the Bible, than the plays 
of Shakespeare. 

Extracts from Shakespeare once thoroughly committed 
to memory are never forgotten. Many of the world's 
great orators and statesmen were wont to commit and 
recite passages from Shakespeare. Edmund Burke made 
Shakespeare his daily study, while Erskine, it is said, 
could have held conversation on every subject in the 
phrases of the great dramatist. Kufus Choate was 
familiar with every line of Shakespeare. Daniel Web- 
ster never tired of repeating passages from the same 
author. The genial Dr. Holmes tells us that Wendell 
Phillips, Motley the historian, and himself, when boys, 
used to declaim Antony's oration on holiday afternoons 
over the prostrate form of some younger playmate. 



Sparrows. 

Adeline D. T. Whitney. 
Little birds sit on the telegraph wires, 

And chitter and flitter and fold their wings. 
Maybe they think that for them and their sires 

Stretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings; 
And perhaps the thought that the world inspires 

Bid plan for the birds among other things. 

Little birds sit on the slender lines, 

And the news of the world runs under their feet: 
How value rises and now declines, 

How kings with their armies in battle meet; 
And all the while, 'mid the soundless signs, 

They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet, 



Miscellaneous Selections. 33 

Little things light on the lines of our lives — 

Hopes and joys and acts of to-day; 
And we think that for these the Lord contrives, 

Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say; 
Yet from end to end his meaning arrives, 

And his word runs underneath all the way. 

Is life only wires and lightning, then, 

Apart from that which about it clings ? 
Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of men 

Only sparrows that light on God's telegraph strings — 
Holding a moment and gone again ? 

Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things! 



But, above all, where thou findest ignorance, stupid- 
ity, brute-mindedness — attack it, I say ; smite it wisely, 
unweariedly, and rest not while thou livest and it lives ; 
but smite, smite in the name of God ! The highest God, 
as I understand it, does audibly so command thee : still 
audibly, if thou have ears to hear. He, even He, with 
his unspoken voice, is fuller than any Sinai thunders, or 
syllabled speech of whirlwinds ; for the silence of deep 
eternities, of worlds beyond the morning stars, does it 
not speak to thee ? The unborn ages ; the old graves, 
with their long moldering dust, the very tears that 
wetted it, now all dry — do not these speak to thee what 
ear hath not heard ? The deep death-kingdoms, the 
stars in their never-resting courses, all space and all 
time, proclaim it to thee in continual silent admonition. 
Thou, too, if ever man should, shalt work while it is 
called to-day; for the night cometh, wherein no man 
can work. — Thomas Carlyle. 
3 



34 Practical Recitations. 



The Storming of Stony Point. 

(July 16, 1779.) 

Elaine Goodale. 

The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars, 
Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars, 
The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west, 
The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast; 

These murmur of Wayne, 

Mad Anthony Wayne, — 
He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain! 

The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern, 
Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern, 
With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still, 
The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill, — 

These whisper of Wayne, 

Mad Anthony Wayne, 
Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain. 

The noiseless approach, and the desperate close; 
The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows; 
The hero, once wounded, who cries, — u I shall win! 
Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!" 

These tell us of Wayne, 

Mad Anthony Wayne, 
With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain! 

The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies, 
Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror's eyes, — 
Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell), — 
" What! storm Stony Point ? You may bid me storm hell !" 

We'll believe it of Wayne, 

Mad Anthony Wayne, 
The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain! 



Miscellaneous Selections. 35 

Humility. 

Ernest W. Shurtleff. 
Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane, 

Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud — 
Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain; 

Nor is the pasture of their presence proud. 
Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod — 
They spring to breathe to man the peace of God. 

I never heard a songster's lay that told 
Of aught but simple joy and grateful praise. 

The oriole, with throat aflame with gold, 
Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze; 

No bird to laud himself hath ever sung — 

His song is for the flowers he chirps among. 

The sun that fills the skies with summer calms, 
The stars that light unmeasured depths of space 

Like distant suns that flash reflected charms, 
When on the night Jehovah turns his face — 

All these in humbleness their glory wear, 

Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair. 

O vaunting man, go ponder on these things! 

Think — what is glory in thy Maker's view ? 
Who wins the passing praise the cold world sings 

Not always earns the praise of Heaven too. 
Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll, 
Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul. 

Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead! 

To know that what we hold is not our own ! 
The lily is as modest as the weed. 

The mountain humble as the broken stone. 
Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just, 
That death should come to teach us we are dust ! 



36 Practical Recitations. 

What of That? 

Tired ? Well, what of that ? 
Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease, 
Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze ? 
Come, rouse thee ! work while it is called day ! 
Coward, arise ! go forth upon thy way. 

Lonely ? And what of that ? 
Some must be lonely; 'tis not given to all 
To feel a heart responsive rise and fall, 
To blend another life into its own ; 
Work may be done in loneliness. Work on ! 

Dark ? Well, and what of that ? 
Didst fondly dream the sun would never set ? 
Dost fear to lose thy way ? Take courage yet. 
Learn thou to walk by faith, and not by sight; 
Thy steps will guided be, and guided right. 

Hard ? Well, what of that ? 
Didst fancy life one summer holiday, 
With lessons none to learn, and naught but play ? 
Go, get thee to thy task ! Conquer or die ! 
It must be learned; learn it, then, patiently. 



Knowledge has in our time triumphed, and is still 
triumphing, over prejudice and over bigotry. The civ- 
ilized and Christian world is fast learning the great les- 
son that difference of nation does not imply necessary 
hostility, and that all contact need not be war. The 
whole world is becoming a common field for intellect to 
act in. Energy of mind, genius, power, wheresoever it 
exists, may speak out in any tongue, and the world will 
hear it. — Daniel Webster. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 37 



The Old Folks in the New School-house. 

Things ain't now as they used to be 

A hundred years ago, 
When schools were kept in private rooms 

Above stairs or below; 
When sturdy boys and rosy girls 

Romped through the drifted snow, 
And spelled t^ir duty and their " abs," 

A hundred years ago. 

Those old school-rooms were dark and cold 

When winter's sun ran low; 
But darker was the master's frown, 

A hundred years ago; 
And high hung up the birchen rod, 

That all the school might see, 
Which taught the boys obedience 

As well as Rule of Three. 

Though 'twas but little that they learned, 

A hundred years ago, 
Yet what they got they ne'er let slip, — 

'Twas well whipped in, you know. 
But now the times are greatly changed, 

The rod has had its day, 
The boys are won by gentle words, 

And girls by love obey. 

The school-house now a palace is, 

And scholars, kings and queens; 
They master Algebra and Greek 

Before they reach their teens. 
Where once was crying, music sweet 

Her soothing influence sheds; 
Ferules are used for beating time, 

And not for beating heads. 



38 Practical Recitations. 

Yes, learning was a ragged boy, 

A hundred years ago; 
With six weeks schooling in a year, 

What could the urchin do ? 
But now he is a full-grown man, 

And boasts attainments rare; 
He's got his silver slippers on, 

And running everywhere. 



The Barbarous Chief. 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
There was a kingdom known as the Mind, 

A kingdom vast, as fair, 
And the brave King Brain had the right to reign 

In royal splendor there. 
Oh ! that was a beautiful, beautiful land 

Which unto this king was given; 
It was filled with everything good and grand, 

And it reached from earth to heaven. 

But a savage monster came one day, 

From over a distant border; 
He made war on the king and usurped his sway, 

And set everything in disorder. 
He mounted the throne, which he made his own, 

And the kingdom was sunk in grief, 
There was sorrow and shame from the hour he came — 

111 Temper, the barbarous chief. 

He threw down the castles of Love and Peace, 

He burned up the altars of prayers ; 
He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain, 

And planted thistles and tares. 
He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and drove 

Queen Wisdom away in fright, 
And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doom 

Shadowed that land with night. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 39 

Then, bent on more havoc, away he rushed 

To the neighboring kingdom Heart, 
And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed, 

And patience was made to depart. 
And he even went on to the isthmus Soul, 

That unites the Mind with God, 
And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowers 

With a reckless heel he trod. 

Oh ! to you is given this beautiful land 

Where the lordly Brain has sway — 
But the border ruffian is near at hand — 

And be on your guard, I pray. 
Beware of 111 Temper, the barbarous chief, 

He is cruel as Vice or Sin; 
He will certainly bring your kingdom grief, 

If once you let him in. 



Growth. 

Horace Mann. 

At first the mind cannot project itself outward, if 
we may so speak, even so far as the eye can reach. 
A child may see with the eye the outlines of a distant 
mountain long before his mind can, as it were, leap 
over the intervening space. But soon the mind attains 
a power of flight compared with which the space 
traveled by the keenest eye, aided by the best telescope, 
is nothing. The eye, indeed, can see the remote star, 
whose light, traveling since its creation at the rate of 
two hundred thousand miles a second, has but just 
reached the earth; but all this is only a hand-breadth 
compared with the depths in the abysses of space into 
which the adventurous mind plunges itself. 



40 Practical Recitations. 

A Bird's Ministry. 

Margaret J. Preston. 

From his home in an eastern bungalow, 
In sight of the everlasting snow 
Of the grand Himalayas, row on row, 
Thus wrote my friend: 

' ' I had traveled far 
From the Afghan towers of Candahar, 
Through the sand- white plains of Sinde-Sagar; 

" And once, when the daily march was o'er, 
As tired I sat in my tented door, 
Hope failed me, as never it failed before. 

" In swarming city, at wayside fane, 
By the Indus' bank, on the scorching plain, 
I had taught, — and my teaching all seemed vain. 

" ' No glimmer of light [I sighed] appears; 
The Moslem's fate and the Buddhist's fears 
Have gloomed their worship this thousand years. 

1 ' ' For Christ and His truth I stand alone 
In the midst of millions; a sand-grain blown 
Against yon temple of ancient stone. 

" ' As soon may level it ! ' Faith forsook 
My soul, as I turned on the pile to look; 
Then rising, my saddened way I took 

" To its lofty roof, for the cooler air; 
I gazed, and marveled; — how crumbled were 
The walls I had deemed so firm and fair ! 

• ' For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone, 
Most plainly rent by its roots alone, 
A beautiful peepul-tree had grown; 



Miscellaneous Selection*. 41 

" Whose gradual stress would still expand 
The crevice, and topple upon the sand 
The temple, while o'er its work would stand 

" The tree in its living verdure ! — Who 
Could compass the thought ? — The bird that flew 
Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew, 

" Did more to shiver this ancient wall 
Than earthquake, — war, — simoon, — or all 
The centuries, in their lapse and fall ! 

11 Then I knelt by the riven granite there, 
And my soul shook off its weight of care, 
As my voice rose clear on the tropic air: 

" ' The living seeds I have dropped remain 
In the cleft; Lord, quicken with dew and rain, 
Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain ! ' " 



Extract from a Letter. 

William Wirt. 

I want to tell you a secret. The way to make your- 
self pleasing to others, is to show that you care for them. 
The world is like the miller at Mansfield, " who cared for 
nobody, no, not he, because nobody cared for him." 
And the whole world will serve you so if you give them 
the same cause. Let every one, therefore, see that you 
do care for them, by showing them what Sterne so hap- 
pily calls " the small, sweet courtesies," in which there is 
no parade ; whose voice is to still, to ease ; and which 
manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks 
and little kind acts of attention, giving others the pref- 
erence in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, 
walking, sitting, or standing. 



42 Practical Recitations. 

The Coast-Guakd. 

Emily Huntington Miller. 

Do you wonder what I am seeing, 

In the heart of the fire, aglow 
Like cliffs in a golden sunset, 

With a summer sea below ? 
I see, away to the eastward, 

The line of a storm-beat coast, 
And I hear the tread of the hurrying waves 

Like the tramp of the mailed host. 

And up and down in the darkness, 

And over the frozen sand, 
I hear the men of the coast-guard 

Pacing along the strand, 
Beaten by storm and tempest, 

And drenched by the pelting rain, 
From the shores of Carolina 

To the wind-swept bays of Maine. 

No matter what storms are raging, 

No matter how wild the night, 
The gleam of their swinging lanterns 

Shines out with a friendly light. 
And many a shipwrecked sailor 

Thanks God, with his gasping breath, 
For the sturdy arms of the surfmen 

That drew him away from death. 

And so, when the wind is wailing, 

And the air grows dim with sleet, 
I think of the fearless watchers 

Pacing along their beat. 
I think of a wreck, fast breaking 

In the surf of a rocky shore, 
And the life-boat leaping onward 

To the stroke of the bending oar. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 43 

I hear the shouts of the sailors, 

The boom of the frozen sail, 
And the creak of the icy halyards 

Straining against the gale. 
Courage !" the captain trumpets, 
" They are sending help from land !" 
God bless the men of the coast-guard, 

And hold their lives in His hand ! 



A Turkish Tradition. 

'Tis said the Turk, when passing down 

An Eastern street, 
If any scrap of paper chance 

His eyes to greet, 

Will never look away, like us, 

Unheedingly, 
Or pass the little fragment thus 

Regardless by, 

But stop to pick it up because, 

Oh, lovely thought ! 
The name of God may thereupon 

Perchance be wrought. 

In every human soul remains, 

However dim, 
Some image of the Deity, 

Some trace of Him. 

And how can we, then, any scorn 

As foul and dark, 
That bear, though frail and lowly, still 

That holy mark ? 

And since His impress is upon 

All nature seen, 
How can we aught disdain as common 

Or unclean ? 

Interior. 



44 Practical Recitations. 



"Eyes that See Not." 

Ella Jewett. 

They tell us in the land of song, 
Where stately tower and palace rise, 
Though marbles breathe and canvas glows, 
Though tall cathedrals kiss the skies, 

The peasant, without thought or care, 
"Walks on, nor heeds the beauty rare. 

We murmur, " Oh, how blind is he ! 

How destitute of mind and heart ! 

'Twere worth a fortune once to view 

Italia' s treasured gems of art !" 

Behold the landscape at our feet ! • 
Was ever painting more complete ? 

No need to search for noble souls, 
Boccaccio's tale, or Petrarch's song; 
A hundred heroes in our midst 
Have learned to suffer and be strong, — 

Martyrs whose names will ne'er be known, 
Princes without a crown and throne. 

Ah, blind and dull ! Let us not chide 

The dwellers in far Italy, 

But rather draw the veil aside 

From our own eyes, that we may see, 

Lo ! all that seemed but commonplace, 
Adorned with beauty and with grace ! 



Lamentation of the Lungs. 

Alas ! has winter come again ? Oh, how we dread the day ! 
The sufferings we undergo the bravest might dismay. 
It is not that we fear the cold: had we a good supply 
Of proper nourishment, the blasts of Greenland we'd defy; 
But these poor bodies where we dwell have so impatient grown 
That, heedless of the common good, they've learned to slight 
their own. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 45 

Not thinking that with fuel we our office would perform, 
And take in oxygen to keep the blood and all the body warm. 
So down the window-sashes go and up the stoves, until 
We starving lungs must labor hard our duty to fulfill. 
Perhaps our tabernacle moves to pitch its roving tent 
Within some crowded hall or church — no doubt with good in- 
tent; 
But little good the sweetest songs or best of sermons do 
To those who vainly strive to keep awake within their pew. 
For in that place of peace a deadly conflict we must wage, 
And friends sit calmly while their lungs in fiercest war engage. 
We struggle for a little air, while clamoring for more 
The surging flood each moment rolls like waves upon the shore. 
Clogged by impurities, in vain to us for help it cries, 
And then the brain and nerves grow dull, and dim the droop- 
ing eyes. 
But should a sufferer chance to rise and from the topmost raft 
Let in a little air, forthwith somebody feels a draught. 
And so we're forced to get along the very best we can; 
Nor do the good that we might do for blundering, headstrong 
man. 

Phrenological Journal. 



To read the English language well, to write with dis- 
patch a neat, legible hand, and be master of the first 
rules of arithmetic, so as to dispose of at once, w T ith ac- 
curacy, every question of figures w T hich comes up in 
practice — I call this a good education. And if you add 
the ability to write pure grammatical English, I regard it 
as an excellent education. These are the tools. You 
can do much with them, but you are helpless without 
them. They are the foundation ; and unless you begin 
with these, all your flashy attainments, a little geology, 
and all other ologies and osophies are ostentatious rub- 
bish. — Edward Everett. 



46 Practical Recitations. 



The Light-house. 

High o'er the black-backed Skerries, and far 

To the westward hills and the eastward sea, 
I shift my light like a twinkling star, 

With ever a star's sweet constancy. 
They wait for me when the night comes down, 

And the slow sun falls in his death divine, 
Then braving the black night's gathering frown, 

With ruby and diamond blaze — I shine ! 

There is war at my feet where the black rocks break, 

The thunderous snows of the rising sea; 
There is peace above when the stars are awake, 

Keeping their night-long watch with me. 
I care not a jot for the roar of the surge, 

The wrath is the sea's — the victory mine ! 
As over its breadth to the furthest verge, 

Unwavering and untired — I shine ! 

First on my brow comes the pearly light, 

Dimming my lamp in the new-born day, • 
One long, last look to left and right, 

And I rest from my toil — for the broad sea-way 
Grows bright with the smile and blush of the sky, 

All incandescent and opaline. 
I rest — but the loveliest day will die — 

Again in its last wan shadows — I shine ! 

When the night is black, and the wind is loud, 

And danger is hidden, and peril abroad, 
The seaman leaps on the swaying shroud; 

His eye is on me, and his hope in God ! 
Alone, in the darkness, my blood-red eye 

Meets his, and he hauls his groping line. 
' A point to nor'ard !" I hear him cry; 

He goes with a blessing, and still — I shine ! 



Miscellaneous Selections. 47 

While standing alone in the summer sun 

Sometimes I have visions and dreams of my own, 
Of long-life voyages just begun, 

And rocks unnoticed, and shoals unknown; 
And I would that men and women would mark 

The duty done by this lamp of mine; 
For many a life is lost in the dark, 

And few on earth are the lights that shine ! 

Good Words. 



A Swedish Poem. 

It matters little where I was born, 

If my parents were rich or poor; 
Whether they shrank at the cold world's scorn, 

Or walked in the pride of wealth secure; 
But whether I live an honest man, 

And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, 
I tell you, my brother, as plain as I am, 
It matters much! 

It matters little how long I stay 

In a world of sorrow and care; 
Whether in youth I'm called away, 

Or live till my bones and pate are bare; 
But whether I do the best I can 

To soften the weight of adversity's touch 
On the faded cheek of my fellow-man, 
It matters much ! 

It matters little where is my grave, 

On the land or on the sea; 
By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave, 

It matters little or naught to me; 
But whether the angel Death comes down, 

And marks my brow with his loving touch 
As one that shall wear the victor's crown, 
It matters much! 



48 Practical Recitations. 

The Demon on the Roof. 

Josephine Pollard. 

'Twas an ancient legend they used to tell 

Within the glow of the kitchen hearth, 
When a sudden silence upon them fell, 

And quenched the laughter and noisy mirth: 
That whenever a dwelling was building new, 

There were demons ready to curse or bless 
The noble structure, that daily grew 

Perfect in shape and comeliness. 

And when the sound of the tools had ceased, 

Hammer and nails, and plane and saw, 
Ere yet the dwelling could be released 

From the evil spirits, — there was a law 
No master-mechanic could be found 

Able or willing to disobey — 
That a ladder be left upon the ground 

For their enjoyment, a night and a day. 

And when the chimneys begin to roar, 

And voices harsh as the wintry wind 
Howl and mock at the outer door, 

The ancient legend is brought to mind, 
And we think, perhaps, that a careless loon, 

Not fearing the master's stern reproof, 
Has taken the ladder away too soon 

And left a demon upon the roof. 

And in every dwelling where joy comes not, 

And the buds of promise forget to bloom, 
Be it a palace or be it a cot, 

Amply splendid or scant of room, 
We may be sure that a demon elf, 

Fiendishly cruel and full of spite, 
Is sitting and grinning away to himself 

Up on the ridge-pole, out of sight. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 49 

But let it ever be borne in mind 

By those who often this legend quote, 
That with every evil some good we find, 

For every ill there's an antidote. 
And if we use but the magic spell, 

And hearts draw near that were kept aloof, 
Good angels then in our homes will dwell, 

Despite the demon upon the roof. 



Only a Little. 
Dora Goodale. 

A bird has little — only a feather 

Plucked, it may be, from a tender breast, 
Only a thread to bind together 

The delicate fabric of his nest; 
Yet he sings, ' ' The wide, free air is mine, 

The dews of earth, the clouds of heaven!" 
He sits and swings with the swinging vine, 

And all he looks on to him is given. 

A child has little — only a blossom 

Caught at random from fields of bloom. 
Only the love in a tender bosom, 

Freed from the shadow of care and gloom; 
Yet he laughs all day from the deeps of lightness, 

And feels his joy in the joy of heaven, 
He loses himself in a world of brightness, 

And all he asks for to him is given. 

A man has little — only a longing 

Higher than labors of sword or pen, 
Only a vision whose lights are thronging 

Over the tumult and toil of men. 
Yet wealth is his from the wealth of being, 

His are the glories of Earth and Heaven, 
He feels a beauty too deep for seeing, 

And all he dreams of to him is given. 
4 



50 Practical Recitations. 



My Portion. 

Carlotta Perry. 

Very little good have I, 

Wealth and station have passed me by; 

But something sweet in my life I hold 

That I would not exchange for place or gold. 

Beneath my feet the green earth lies, 

Above my head are the tender skies; 

I look between two heavens; my eyes 

Look out to where, serene and sweet, 

At the world's fair rim the two heavens meet. 

I hear the whispering of the breeze, 

The sweet, small tumults amid the trees; 

And many a message comes to me 

On the wing of bird, in the hum of bee, 

From the mountain peak and the surging sea. 

E'en the silence speaks a voice so clear, 

I lean my very heart to hear, 

And all above me and all around 

Light and darkness and sight and sound, 

To soul and sense such meanings bring, 

I thrill with a rapturous wondering. 

And I know by many a subtle sign 

That the very best of life is mine; 

And yet, as I spell each message o'er, 

I look and long for a deeper lore; 

I long to see and I long to hear, 

With a clearer vision, a truer ear; 

And I pray with keenest of all desire 

For lips that are touched by the altar fire. 

Patience, O soul ! From a little field 

There cometh often a gracious yield; 

Who touches His garment's hem is healed. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 51 

Saxon Grit. 

Kev. Kobert Collyer. 

Worn by the battle, by Stamford town, 

Fighting the Norman by Hastings bay; 
Harold, the Saxon's sun, went down 

When the acorns were falling one autumn day. 
Then the Norman said: "lam lord of the land, 

By tenure of conquest here I sit; 
I will rule you now with the iron hand;" 

But he had not thought of the Saxon grit. 

He took the land, and he took the men, 

And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne; 
Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen; 

Ate up the corn and drank the wine. 
From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar, 

Our life shall not be by the king's permit, — 
We will fight for the right ; we want no more. 

Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit. 

For slow and sure as the oaks had grown 

From the acorns falling that autumn day, 
So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town 

To a nobler nature grew alway. 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches, 

Standing by law and the human right; 
Many times failing, never once quailing, 

So the new day came out of the night. 

Then rising afar in the western sea 

A new world stood in the morn of the day, 
Ready to welcome the brave and free, 

Who would wrench out the heart, and march away 
From the narrow, contracted, dear old land, 

Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, 
To ampler spaces for heart and hand; 

And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. 



52 Practical Recitations. 

Steadily steering, eagerly peering, 

Trusting in God, your fathers came, 
Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, 

Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame, 
Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, 

And hiding their freedom in holy writ, 
They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, 

And made a new Moses of Saxon grit, 

They whittled and waded through forest and fen, 

Fearless as ever of what might befall, 
Pouring out life for the nurture of men 

In the faith that by manhood the world views all. 
Inventing baked beans and no end of machines, 

Great with the rifle, and great with the ax, 
Sending their notions over the oceans 

To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs; 

Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, 

Yet open of hand when the dollar is made; 
Maintaining the meeting, exalting the scholar, 

But a little too anxious about a good trade. 
This is young Jonathan, son of old John, 

Positive, peaceable, firm in the right. 
Saxon men all of us, may we be one, 

Steady for freedom and strong in her might. 

Then slow and sure, as the oaks have grown 

From the acorns that fell on the dim old day, 
So this new manhood, in city and town, 

To a nobler stature will grow alway. 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches, 

Slow to contention and slower to quit, 
Now and then failing, but never once quailing, 

Let us thank God for the Saxon grit. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 53 



The Little Light. 

The light shone dim on the headland, 

For the storm was raging high; 
I shaded my eyes from the inner glare, 

And gazed on the wet, gray sky. 
It was dark and lowering; on the sea 

The waves were booming loud, 
And the snow and the piercing winter sleet 

Wove over all a shroud. 

11 God pity the men on the sea to-night !" 

I said to my little ones, 
And we shuddered as we heard afar 

The sound of the minute-guns. 
My good man came in, in his fishing-coat 

(He was wet and cold that night), 
And he said, ' ' There'll lots of ships go down 

On the headland rocks to-night." 

11 Let the lamp burn all night, mother," 

Cried little Mary then; 
" Tis but a little light, but still 

It might save drowning men." 
" Oh, nonsense I" cried her father 

(He was tired and cross that night), 
" The Highland light-house is enough," 

And he put out the light. 

That night, on the rocks below us, 

A noble ship went down; 
But one was saved from the ghastly wreck, 
The rest were left to drown. 
11 We steered by a little light," he said, 
" Till we saw it sink from view: 
If they'd only left that light all night, 
My mates might be here, too !" 



54 Practical Recitations. 



Then little Mary sobbed aloud, 

Her father blushed for shame, 
" 'Twas our light that you saw," he said, 

" And I'm the one to blame." 
'Twas a little light — how small a thing ! 

And trifling was its cost; 
Yet, for want of it a ship went down, 

And a hundred souls were lost. 



Wind and Sea. 
Bayard Taylor. 

The sea is a jovial comrade, 

He laughs wherever he goes; 
His merriment shines in the dimpling lines 

That wrinkle his hale repose; 
He lays himself down at the feet of the sun, 

And shakes all over with glee; 
And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore 

In the mirth of the mighty sea. 

But the wind is sad and restless, 

And cursed with an inward pain; 
You may hark as you will by valley or hill, 

But you hear him still complain. 
He wails on the barren mountains, 

And shrieks on the watery sea; 
He sobs in the cedar and moans in the pine, 

And quakes through the aspen tree. 

"Welcome are both their voices; 

And I know not which is best, 
The laughter that slips from ocean's lips, 

Or the comfortless wind's unrest. 
There's a pang in all rejoicing, 

A joy in the heart of pain ; 
And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, 

Are singing the self -same strain. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 55 

Happiness. 

Maggie B. Peeke. 

I followed a bird to the north and south,. 

I followed it east and west, 
"With the longing to call it at last my own, 

And hide it within my breast: 
But the bird flew on, and I sought in vain, 
Through sunshine and wind, through the storm and rain. 

I went to the city, to find it, where 

The restless crowd surged by; 
But the bird I sought, with its snowy wings 

Had flown to the upper sky, — 
And the crowds surged on, with their ceaseless din, 
Their waves of sorrow and folly and sin. 

I went to the forest, where all day long 

A hush that was sweet fell down, 
And I watched for my bird with its magical song, 

But the shadows gave only a frown; 
So I knew that I never should find it there, 
And I gave up the chase in sullen despair. 

I entered the lists of the busy world: 

I took up its burden of care, 
Its wrongs to be righted, its sorrows to lift, 

Its mountains of trouble to bear; 
And wearied, I laid me at last to rest. 
I awoke, — and the bird was within my breast. 



An Illumined Text. 

The gray monk, rising, with a loving pride 

Laid the long task of patient months aside, 

The simple story of the gospels told 

In lettering of crimson and of gold; 

On its rich pages streamed the setting sun, 

And now his life waned and his work was done. 



56 Practical Recitations. 

He pushed away the heavy oaken door, 
And stood within the sunset calm once more. 
Above the narrowing round of life he knew 
A sense of beauty and of wonder grew. 
The text his art had copied, " God is Love," 
Came to him like the home-returning dove. 

As the wind whistled in the bearded grain; 

The tender words made music in his brain; 

The green leaves whispered of it, everywhere 

He read it on the blue scroll of the air, 

As if more clearly and in fairer guise 

The Lord Himself inscribed it for men's eyes ! 

Christian at Work. 



Oldek than all preached gospels was this unpreached, 
inarticulate, but ineradicable, for-ever-enduring gospel: 
work, and therein have well-being. Man, Son of Earth 
and of Heaven, lies there not, in the innermost heart of 
thee, a spirit of active method, a force for work ; — and 
burns like a painfully smouldering fire, giving thee no 
rest till thou unfold it, till thou write it down in benefi- 
cent facts around thee ? What is immethodic, waste, 
thou shalt make methodic, regulated, arable, obedient 
and productive to thee. Wheresoever thou findest dis- 
order, there is thy eternal enemy : attack him swiftly, 
subdue him ; make order of him, the subject not of 
chaos, but of intelligence, divinity, and thee ! The this- 
tle that grows in thy path, dig it out that a blade of use- 
ful grass, a drop of nourishing milk, may grow there 
instead. The waste cotton-shrub, gather its waste white 
down, spin it, weave it ; that, in place of idle litter, there 
may be folded webs, and the naked skin of man be cov- 
ered. — Thomas Carlyle. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 57 

The King's Bell. 

Eben E. Bexford. 

" No perfect day has ever come to me," 

An old man said; 
i ' A perfect day for ns can never be 

Till we are dead." 

The young king heard him, and he turned away 

In earnest thought. 
Did men ne'er find on earth the perfect day 

For which they sought ? 

A day all free from care ? — so running o'er 

With life's delight 
That there seemed room or wish for nothing more 

From dawn to night ? 

" It must be that such days have come to man," 

The young king said. 
" Go search — find one who found them — if you can!" 

Ah, wise gray head! 

" I trust that some time such a day will come 
To even me," 
The king said. But the old man's lips were dumb — 
A doubter he. 

" That you, and those about you all may know 
My perfect day, 
A bell shall ring out when the sun is low, 
And men shall say — 

" ' Behold! this day has been unto the king 
A day replete 
With happiness. It lacked not anything — 
A day most sweet! ' " 

In a high tower, ere night, the passers saw 

A mighty bell, 
The tidings of a day without a flaw 

Some time to tell. 



58 Practical Recitations. 

The bell hung silent in its lofty tower, 

Days came and went; 
Each summer brought its sunshine and its flower, 

Its old content; 

But not the happy day he hoped to see. 

" But soon or late 
The day of days," he said, " will come to me. 

I trust — and wait." 

The years, like leaves upon a restless stream, 

Were swept away, 
And in the king's dark hair began to gleam 

Bright threads of gray. 

Men, passing by, looked upward to the bell, 
And smiling said, 
" Delay not of the happy time to tell 
Till we are dead." 

But they grew old and died. And silent still 

The great bell hung; 
And the good king, bowed down with age, fell ill 

His cares among. 

At dusk, one day, with dazed brain, from his room 

He slowly crept 
Up rattling tower-steps, in dust and gloom, 

While watchers slept. 

Above the city broke the great bell's voice, 
Silent so long. 
" Behold the king's most happy day! Rejoice!" 
It told the throng. 

Filled with strange awe, the long night passed away. 

At morn men said, 
" At last the king has found his happy day— 

The king is dead! " 



Miscellaneous Selections. 59 



Noblesse Oblige. 

Carlotta Perry. 

If I am weak and you are strong, 

Why then, why then, 
To you the braver deeds belong; 

And so, again, 
If you have gifts and I have none, 
If I have shade and you have sun, 
'Tis yours with freer hand to give, 
'Tis yours with truer grace to live, 
Than I, who giftless, sunless, stand, 
With barren life and hand. 

We do not ask the little brook 

To turn the wheel; 
Unto the larger stream we look. 

The strength of steel 
We do not ask from silken bands, 
Nor heart of oak in willow wands; 
We do not ask the wren to go 
Up to the heights the eagles know; 
Nor yet expect the lark's clear note 
From out the dove's dumb throat. 

'Tis wisdom's law, the perfect code, 

By love inspired; 
Of him on whom much is bestowed 

Is much required. 
The tuneful throat is bid to sing, 
The oak must reign the forest's king; 
The rushing stream the wheel must move, 
The beaten steel its strength must prove. 
'Tis given unto the eagle's eyes 
To face the midday skies. 



60 Practical Recitations. 



Uses of Adversity. 

If none were sick and none were sad, 
What service could we render ? 

I think if we were always glad, 
"We scarcely could be tender. 

Did our beloved never need 

Our patient ministration, 
Earth would grow cold, and miss, indeed, 

Its sweetest consolation. 

If sorrow never claimed our heart, 
And every wish were granted, 

Patience would die and hope depart, 
Life would be disenchanted. 



The Value of Literature. 

The literature of the world is in a very deep sense the 
direct and most beautiful outcome of its life. Men have 
had but a partial success in shaping their external life, 
but their ideals, their aspirations, their highest thoughts 
of themselves are to be found in books. It is only as 
we unite the actual which we find in its history with the 
ideal which we find in its literature, that we are able to 
get any true understanding of an age. The value and 
vitality of great books lie not so much in their art as in 
the fidelity and completeness with which they represent 
human life. Literature is, in a word, the best that has 
been thought or dreamed in the world, and must there- 
fore remain to the very end of time the most fascinating 
and the most fruitful study to which men can give them- 
selves. — Hamilton W. Mabie, 



Miscellaneous Selections. 61 

True Heroism. 

Let others write of battles fought 

On bloody, ghastly fields, 
Where honors greet the man who wins, 

And death the man who yields; 
But I will write of him who fights 

And vanquishes his sins, 
Who struggles on through weary years 

Against himself and wins. 

He is a hero, stanch and brave, 

Who fights an unseen foe, 
And puts at last beneath his feet 

His passions base and low; 
Who stands erect in manhood's might 

Undaunted, undismayed — 
The bravest man that drew a sword 

In foray or in raid. 

It calls for something more than brawn 

Or muscle, to overcome 
An enemy who marcheth not 

With banner, plume, and drum — 
A foe, forever lurking nigh, 

With silent, stealthy tread, 
Forever near your board by day, 

And night beside your bed. 

All honor, then, to that brave heart, 

Though poor or rich he be, 
Who struggles with his baser part — 

Who conquers and is free ! 
He may not wear a hero's crown, 

Nor fill a hero's grave; 
But truth will place his name among 

The bravest of the brave. 



62 Practical Recitations. 

The Burial of the Old Flag. 

Mary A. Barr. 

There is not in all the north countrie, 

Nor yet on the Humber line, 
A town with a prouder record than 

Newcastle-upon-the-Tyne. 
Koman eagles have kept its walls; 

Saxon, and Dane, and Scot 
Have left the glamour of noble deeds, 

With their names, on this fair spot. 
From the reign of William Rufus, 

The monarchs of every line 
Had a grace for loyal Newcastle, 

The city upon the Tyne. 

By the Nuns' Gate, and up Pilgrim Street, 

What pageants have held their way! 
But in seventeen hundred and sixty-three, 

One lovely morn in May, 
There was a sight in bonnie Newcastle! 

Oh, that I had been there! 
To hear the call of the trumpeters 

Thrilling the clear spring air, 
To hear the roar of the cannon, 

And the drummer's gathering beat, 
And the eager hum of the multitudes 

Waiting upon the street. 

Just at noon was a tender hush, 

And a funeral march was heard; 
With arms reversed and colors tied 

Came the men of the Twenty-third. 
And Lennox, their noble leader, bore 

The shreds of a faded flag, 
The battle-flag of the regiment, 

Shot to a glorious rag; 






Miscellaneous Selections. 63 

Shot into shreds upon its staff, 

Torn in a hundred fights, 
From the torrid plains of India 

To the cold Canadian heights. 

There was not an inch of bunting left; 

How could it float again 
Over the faithful regiment 

It never had led in vain ? 
And oh, the hands that had carried it ! 

It was not cloth and wood : 
It stood for a century's heroes, 

And was crimson with their blood; 
It stood for a century's comrades. 

They could not cast it away, 
And so with a soldier's honors 

They were burying it that day. 

In the famous old North Humber fort, 

Where the Roman legions trod, 
With the roar of cannon and roll of drums 

They laid it under the sod. 
But it wasn't a tattered flag alone 

They buried with tender pride; 
It was every faithful companion 

That under the flag had died. 
It was honor, courage, and loyalty 

That thrilled that mighty throng 
Standing bare-headed and silent as 

The old flag passed along. 

So when the grasses had covered it 

There was a joyful strain; 
And the soldiers, stirred to a noble thought, 

Marched proudly home again. 
The citizens went to their shops once more, 

The collier went to his mine; 
The shepherd went to the broomy hills, 

And the sailor to the Tyne; 



64 Practical Recitations. 

But men and women and children felt 
That it had been well to be 

Just for an hour or two face to face 
With honor and loyalty. 






The Old Stone Basin. 

Susan Coolidge. 

In the heart of the busy city, 
In the scorching noontide heat, 

A sound of bubbling water 
Falls on the din of the street. 

It falls in a gray stone basin, 

And over the cool wet brink 
The heads of thirsty horses 

Each moment are stretched to drink. 

And peeping between the crowding heads 
As the horses come and go, 
" The Gift of Three Little Sisters" 
Is read on the stone below. 

Ah, beasts are not taught letters, 

They know no alphabet; 
And never a horse in all these years 

Has read the words; and yet 

I think that each toil-worn creature 
Who stops to drink by the way, 

His thanks in his own dumb fashion 
To the sisters small must pay. 

Years have gone by since busy hands 
Wrought at the basin's stone; 

The kindly little sisters 
Are all to women grown. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 65 

I do not know their home or fates, 

Or the name they bear to men, 
But this sweetness of their gracious deed 

Is just as fresh as then. 

And all life long, and after life, 

They must the happier be, 
For the cup of water given by them 

When they were children three. 



Beside the Railway Track, 

On its straight iron pathway the long train was rushing, 
With its noise, and its smoke, and its great human load; 

And I saw a wild rose that in beauty was blushing, 
Fresh and sweet, by the side of the hot, dusty road. 

Untrained were its branches, untended it nourished, 
No eye watched its opening or mourned its decay; 

But its leaves by the soft dews of heaven were nourished, 
And it opened its buds in the warm light of day. 

I asked why it grew there where none prized its beauty, 
For of thousands who passed none had leisure to stay. 

And the answer came sweetly, " I do but my duty; 
I was told to grow here by the side of the way. " 

There are those on life's pathway whose spirits are willing 
To dwell where the busy crowd passes them by; 

But the dew from above on their leaves is distilling, 
And they bloom 'neath the smile of the All-seeing Eye. 

They are loved by the few — like the rose, they remind us, 
When tempted from duty's safe pathway to stray; 

We, too, have a place and a mission assign'd us, 
Though it be but to grow by the side of the way. 
5 



66 Practical Recitations. 

A Song for the Conquered. 
William W. Story. 

I sing the Hymn of the Conquered, who fell in the battle of 
life; 

The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed 
in the strife. 

Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding 
acclaim 

Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet 
of fame. 

But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the 
broken in heart, 

Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and des- 
perate part; 

Whose youth bore no flower in its branches, whose hopes 
burned in ashes away; 

From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at; who 
stood at the dying of day 

With the work of their life all around them, unpitied, un- 
heeded, alone, 

With death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their 
faith overthrown. 

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, — its paean for 

those who have won, — 
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the 

breeze and the sun 
Gay banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet 
Thronging after the laurel - crowned victors, I stand on the 

field of defeat, 
In the shadow 'mongst those who are fallen, and wounded and 

dying, and there 
Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted 

brows, breathe a prayex, 



Miscellaneous Selections. 67 

Hold the hand that is hapless, and whisper, "They only the 

victory win 
Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the 

demon that tempts us within; 
Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the 

world holds on high; 
Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight — if 

need be to die." 

Speak, History ! Who are life's victors ? Unroll thy long 

annals, and say — 
Are they those whom the world called the victors who won the 

success of the day ? 
The martyrs, or Nero ? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylae's 

tryst, 
Or the Persians of Xerxes ? His judges, or Socrates ? Pilate, 

or Christ ? 



The Amen of the Rocks. 

Christian Gellert. 

The Venerable Bede, with age grown blind, 
Still went abroad to preach the new evangel. 

From town to town, village to village, journeyed 
The saintly elder, with a lad for guide, 

And preached the word with youthful zeal and fervor; 
And once the lad led him along a vale, 

All scattered o'er with mighty moss-grown bowlders. 

More thoughtless than malicious quoth the urchin, 
" Here, reverend father, many men have come, 
And all the multitude await thy sermon." 
The blind old man stood upright at his speech, 
And spake his text, explained it, thence digressed, 
Exhorted, warned, reproved, and comforted, 
So earnestly that tears of love and joy 
Kan down his cheeks, and on his long gray beard; 



68 Practical Recitations. 



Then, as was meet, he ended with " Our Father, 

Thine is the kingdom, Thine the power, and Thine 
The glory is forever and forever." 
Then came a thousand, thousand answering voices— 
" Yea, reverend father, amen and amen." 
Then, terrified, the boy fell down repentant, 
Confessing to the saint his ill behavior. 

" Son," said the holy man, " didst thou read never 
That stones themselves shall cry if man is silent ? 
Play thou no more, my son, with things divine. 
God's word is powerful, and cuts more sharp 
Than any two-edged sword. And if it be 
That man toward the Lord is stony-hearted, 
A human heart shall wake in stones, and witness." 



Only a Little Thing-. 

Mrs. M. P. Handy. 
It was only a tiny seed, 

Carelessly brushed aside; 
But it grew in time to a noxious weed, 

And spread its poison wide. 

It was only a little leak, 

So small you might hardly see; 
But the rising waters found the break, 

And wrecked the great levee. 

It was only a single spark, 

Dropped by a passing train; 
But the dead leaves caught, and swift and dark 

Was its work on wood and plain. 

It was only an unsound nail 

That the workman used — ah me ! 
But the ship that else had weathered the gale 

Went down in the deep, dark sea. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 69 

It was only a thoughtless word, 

Scarce meant to be unkind; 
But it pierced as a dart to the heart that heard, 

And left its sting behind. 

It may seem a trifle at most, 

The thing that we do or say; 
And yet it may be that at fearful cost 

We may wish it undone some day. 



The Little Messenger of Love. 

'Twas a little sermon preached to me 

By a sweet, unconscious child — 
A baby girl, scarce four years old, 

With blue eyes soft and mild. 
It happened on a rainy day; 

I, seated in a car, 
Was thinking, as I neared my home, 

Of the continual jar 
And discord that pervade the air 

Of busy city life, 
Each caring but for " number one," 

Self -gain provoking strife. 
The gloomy weather seemed to cast 

On every face a shade, 
But on one countenance were lines 

By sorrow deeply laid. 
With low bowed head and hands clasped close, 

She sat, so poor and old, 
Nor seemed to heed the scornful glance 

From eyes unkind and cold. 
I looked again. Oh, sweet indeed 

The sight that met my eyes ! 
Sitting upon her mother's lap, 

With baby face so wise, 
Was a wee child with sunny curls, 



70 Practical Recitations. 

Blue eyes, and dimpled chin, 
And a young, pure, loving heart 

Unstained as yet by sin. 
Upon the woman poor and sad 

Her eyes in wonder fell, 
Till wonder changed to pitying love; 

Her thoughts, oh, who could tell ? 
Her tiny hands four roses held; 

She looked them o'er and o'er, 
Then choosing out the largest one, 

She struggled to the floor. 
Across the swaying car she went 

Straight to the woman's side, 
And putting in the wrinkled hand 

The rose, she ran to hide 
Her little face in mother's lap, 

Fearing she had done wrong, 
Not knowing, baby as she was, 

That she had helped along 
The up-hill road of life a soul 

Cast down, discouraged quite, 
As on the woman's face there broke 

A flood of joyous light. 

Dear little child ! she was indeed 

A messenger of love 
Sent to that woman's lonely heart 

From the great Heart above. 
This world would be a different place 

Were each to give to those 
Whose hearts are sad as much of love 

As went with baby's rose. 

Harpers Young People, 



Fd rather be right than to be President of the United 
States. — Henry Clay. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 71 

Original Maxims of George Washington. 

[Recitations for Twelve Students.] 
I. 

Commekce and industry are the best mines of a 

nation. 

ii. 

Let your heart feel for the afflictions and distresses 

of every one. 

in. 

Ingratitude, I hope, will never constitute a part of 
my character, nor find a place in my bosom. 

IV. 

Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark 
of celestial fire called conscience. 

V. - 

To persevere is one's duty, and to be silent is the 
best answer to calumny. 

VI. 

I never wish to promise more than I have a moral 
certainty of performing. 

VII. 

I shall never attempt to palliate my own foibles by 
exposing the error of another. 

VIII. 

It is a maxim with me not to ask what, under simi- 
lar circumstances, I would not grant. 

IX. 

Be courteous to all, but intimate with few ; and let 
those be well tried before you give them your confi- 
dence. 



72 Practical Recitations. 



Associate with men of good quality if you esteem 
your own reputation, for it is better to be alone than in 
bad company. 

XI. 

A good character is the first essential in a man. It 
is, therefore, highly important to endeavor not only to 
be learned, but virtuous. 

XII. 

I am resolved that no misrepresentations, falsehoods, 
or calumny shall make me swerve from what I conceive 
to be the strict line of duty. 



The Wokk of a Sunbeam. 

Nathan G. Shepherd. 

I have read in old tales of the buried past, 
Of two armies which met on the battle-plain; 

Eoman and Cymbric, in numbers vast, 
How they fought till the field was heaped with slain; 

And how through all day the crimson tide 
Of battle favored the Cymbric side, 
Though their dead bestrewed the plain, 

Till at length, from out of the clouded skies, 

A sunbeam darted across the world, 
Blinding the Cymbrian warrior's eyes; 

And backward their conquering hosts were hurled. 
And thus in the record of years is told 
How a sunbeam, back in the days of old, 

Decided the fate of the world. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 73 



The Silver Bird's Nest. 

A stranded soldier's epaulet 

The waters cast ashore, 
A little winged rover met, 

And eyed it o'er and o'er; 
The silver bright so charmed her sight, 

On that lone idle vest, 
She knew not why she should deny 

Herself a silver nest. 

The shining wire she pecked and twirled, 

Then bore it to her bough, 
Where on a flowery twig 'twas curled, 

The bird can show you how; 
But when enough of that bright stuff 

The cunning builder bore, 
Her house to make, she would not take, 

Nor did she covet, more. 

And when the little artisan — 

While neither pride nor guilt 
Had entered in her pretty plan — 

Her resting-place had built, 
With here and there a plume to spare, 

About her own light form, 
Of these, inlaid with skill, she made 

A lining soft and warm. 

But do you think the tender brood 

She fondled there, and fed, 
Were prouder when they understood 

The sheen about their bed ? 
Do you suppose they ever rose, 

Of higher powers possessed, 
Because they knew they peeped and grew 

Within a silver nest ? 



74 Practical Recitations. 

Luther. 

Joaquin Miller. 
Valiant, defiant, and free, 

Majestic, impressive, and lone, 
He looms like that isle of the sea 

That rose to an emperor's throne. 

Honor where manhood is found, 
Glory where valor has led, 

To priest or not priest, the world round; 
To white man, or black man, or red. 

Honor to manhood and worth, 
Glory to action and deed, 

To manhood, not priesthood, on earth; 
For man is the master of creed. 



Original Maxims of James A. Garfield. 

[Recitations for Ten Students.] 
I. 

A pound of pluck is worth a ton of luck. 

ii. 

Poets may be born, but success is made. 

hi. 
Be fit for more than the one thing you are now doing. 

IV. 

I would rather be beaten in right than succeed in 
wrong. 

Y. 

Luck is an ignis fatuus. You may follow it to ruin, 
but not to success. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 75 

VI. 

If the power to do hard work is not a talent, it is the 
best possible substitute for it. 

VII. 

I would rather be defeated than make capital out of 
my religion. 

VIII. 

Things don't turn up in this world unless somebody 
turns them up. 

IX. 

Territory is but the body of a nation. The people 

who inhabit its hills and its valleys are its soil, its spirit, 

and its life. 

x. 

The privilege of being a young man is a great privi- 
lege, and the privilege of growing to be an independent 
man, in middle life, is a greater. 



It is a strange fancy of mine, but I cannot help wish- 
ing we could move for returns — as their phrase is in par- 
liament — for the suffering caused in any one day, or 
other period of time, throughout the world, to be ar- 
ranged under certain heads ; and we should then see 
what the world has occasion to fear most. What a large 
amount would come under the heads of unreasonable 
fear of others, of miserable quarrels amongst relations 
upon infinitesimally small subjects, of imaginary slights, 
of undue cares, of false shames, of absolute misunder- 
standings, of unnecessary pains to maintain credit or 
reputation, of vexation that we cannot make others of the 
same mind with ourselves ! What a wonderful thing it 
would be to see set down in figures, as it were, how ingen- 
ious we are in plaguing one another ! — Arthur Helps. 



76 Practical Recitations. 



The Angel oe Dawn. 

J. S. Cutler. 

One morn an angel stopped beside my door, 
Clad in the shining garments of the dawn; 

Upon his brow a starry crown he wore; 
In his right hand a flaming sword was drawn. 

With terror filled, I prayed with piteous cry 

The angel-presence then to pass me by. 

11 1 am not death," the angel said, and smiled; 

" Thy soul shall have the answer to thy prayer. 
Drive from thy breast this fearful anguish wild; 

I am the Angel of the Dawn — beware ! 
I place a priceless jewel in thy hands; 
The day is thine, waste not its running sands. 

1 ' Therefore mark w T ell — thy duty waiteth thee, 
Beside the morning's swiftly opening gate; 

The new day dawns — its hours will quickly flee; 
Stamp them with honor ere it be too late; 

Thy deed may lift thee higher than thy prayer. 

The day is thine, remember and beware !" 

And then the angel took his shining way, 
On silent wings, out to the shadowy west; 

And swiftly onward came the new-born day, 
The priceless jewel of my angel-guest. 

The birds awoke and filled the world with song, 

And made my burden light the whole day long. 

And now, when morning throws its early beams 
In golden rays across the ocean's floor, 

And I awake from slumbering and dreams, 
I know an angel waiteth at the door; 

I hear again that kindly voice declare — 
" Thy deed may lift thee higher than thy prayer." 



Miscellaneous Selections. 11 



Questions. 

Kate Lawrence. 

Can you put the spider's web back in its place that once has 

been swept away ? 
Can you pat the apple again on the bough which fell at our 

feet to-day ? 
Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem, and cause it to live 

and .grow ? 
Can you mend the butterfly's broken wing that you crushed 

with a hasty blow ? 
Can you put the bloom again on the grape, or the grape again 

on the vine ? 
Can you put the dew-drops back on the flowers and make them 

sparkle and shine ? 
Can you put the petals back on the rose ? If you could, would 

it smell as sweet ? 
Can you put the flour again in the husk, and show me the 

ripened wheat ? 
Can you put the kernel back in the nut, or the broken egg in 

its shell ? 
Can you put the honey back in the comb, and cover with wax 

each cell ? 
Can you put the perfume back in the vase, when once it has 

sped away ? 
Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn, or the down on 

catkins — say ? 
You think that my questions are trifling, then ? Let me ask 

you another one : 
Can a hasty word ever be unsaid, or a deed unkind undone ? 



78 Practical Recitations, 

The Landing of the Pilgrims. 

Felicia Hemans. 

Plymouth (Dec. 21, 1620). 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark, 

On the wild New England shore. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod; 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God. 



The Twenty-first of February. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

Pale is the February sky, 

And brief the mid-day's sunny hours; 
The wind-swept forest seems to sigh 

For the sweet time of leaves and flowers. 

Yet has no month a prouder day, 
Not even when the summer broods 

O'er meadows in their fresh array, 
Or autumn tints the glowing woods. 



Miscellaneous Selections. 79 

For this chill season now again 

Brings, in its annual round, the morn 

When, greatest of the sons of men, 
Our glorious Washington was born. 

Lo, where, beneath an icy shield, 

Calmly the mighty Hudson flows ! 
By snow-clad fell and frozen field, 

Broadening, the lordly river goes. 

The wildest storm that sweeps through space, 
And rends the oak with sudden force, 

Can raise no ripple on his face, 
Or slacken his majestic course. 

Thus, 'mid the wreck of thrones, shall live 
Unmarred, undimmed, our hero's fame, 

And years succeeding years shall give 
Increase of honors to his name. 



Forefathers' Day. 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 

Find me the men on earth who care 

Enough for faith or creed to-day 
To seek a barren wilderness 

For simple liberty to pray. 

Despise their narrow creed who will; 

Pity their poverty who dare : 
Their lives knew joys, their lives wore crowns, 

We do not know, we cannot wear. 

And if so be that it is saved, 

Our poor Republic, stained and bruised, 
'Twill be because we lay again 

Their corner-stones which we refused. 



80 Practical Recitations. 



A True Story. 

" Where is the baby, grandmamma ?" 

The sweet young mother calls 
From her work in the cosy kitchen, 

With its dainty whitewashed walls. 
And grandma leaves her knitting, 

And looks for her all around; 
But not a trace of baby dear 

Can anywhere be found. 

No sound of its merry prattle, 

No gleam of its sunny hair, 
No patter of tiny footsteps, 

No sign of it anywhere. 
All through house and garden, 

Far out into the field, 
They search each nook and corner; 

But nothing is revealed. 

And the mother's face grew pallid; 

Grandmamma's eyes grew dim; 
The father's gone to the village; 

No use to look for him. 
And the baby lost ! " Where's Rover !" 

The mother chanced to think 
Of the old well in the orchard 

Where the cattle used to drink. 

" Where's Rover ? I know he'd find her ? 

Rover !" In vain they call, 
Then hurry away to the orchard; 

And there by the moss-grown wall, 
Close to the well, lies Rover, 

Holding to baby's dress; 
She was leaning over the wall's edge 

In perfect fearlessness ! 



Miscellaneous Selections, 81 

She stretched her little arms down; 

But Rover held her fast, 
And never seemed to mind the kicks 

The tiny bare feet cast 
So spitefully upon him, 

But wagged his tail instead, 
To greet the frightened searchers, 

"While naughty baby said: 

" Dere's a 'ittle dirl in the 'ater; 

She's dust as big as me, 
Mamma; I want to help her out, 

And take her home to tea. 
But Rover, he won't let me, 

And I don't love him. Go 
Away, you naughty Kover ! 

Oh ! why are you crying so ?" 

The mother kissed her, saying: 

' ' My darling, understand, 
Good Rover saved your life, my dear — 

And, see, he licks your hand ! 
Kiss Rover." Baby struck him, 

But grandma understood; 
She said: " It's hard to thank the friend 

Who thwarts us for our good." 

Baldwin's Monthly, 



82 Practical Recitations. 

Little Chkistel. 

Mrs. Mary E. Bradley. 

Fraulein, the young schoolmistress, to her pupils said one day, 
" Next week, at Pfingster holiday, King Ludwig rides this way; 
And you will be wise, my little ones, to work with a will at 

your tasks, 
That so you may answer fearlessly whatever question he asks. 
It would be a shame too dreadful if the king should have it to 

tell 
That Hansel missed in his figures, and Peterkin could not 

spell." 

" Oho ! that never shall happen," cried Hansel and Peterkin 

too; 
" We'll show King Ludwig, when he comes, what the boys in 

this school can do." 
" And we," said Gretchen and Bertha, and all the fair little 

maids 
Who stood in a row before her, with their hair in flaxen braids, 
1 i We will pay such good attention to every word you say, 
That you shall not be ashamed of us when King Ludwig rides 

this way. " 

She smiled, the young schoolmistress, to see that they loved 

her so, 
And with patient care she taught them the things it was good 

to know. 
Day after day she drilled them till the great day came at last, 
When the heralds going before him blew out their sounding 

blast; 
And with music, and flying banners, and the clatter of horses, 

feet, 
The king and his troops of soldiers rode down the village street. 

Oh the hearts of the eager children beat fast with joy and fear, 
And Fraulein trembled and grew pale as the cavalcade drew 
near; 



Miscellaneous Selections, 83 

But she blushed with pride and pleasure when the lessons 

came to be heard, 
For in all the flock of the boys and girls not one of them 

missed a word. 
And King Ludwig turned to the teacher with a smile and a 

gracious look; 
"It is plain," said he, "that your scholars have carefully 

conned their book. 

" But now let us ask some questions to see if they understand;" 
And he showed to one of the little maids an orange in his hand. 
It was Christel, the youngest sister of the mistress fair and 

kind — 
A child with a face like a lily, and as lovely and pure a mind. 
" What kingdom does this belong to ?" as he called her to his 

knee; 
And at once — " The vegetable," she answered quietly. 

" Good," said the monarch kindly, and showed her a piece of 
gold; 

"Now tell me what this belongs to — the pretty coin that I 
hold ? " 

She touched it with careful finger, for gold was a metal 
rare, 

And then — " The mineral kingdom !" she answered with con- 
fident air. 

" Well done for the little madchen !" And good King Ludwig 
smiled 

At Fraulein and her sister, the teacher and the child. 

" Now answer me one more question," — with a twinkle of fun 

in his eye: 
"What kingdom do I belong to ?" For he thought she would 

make reply, 
" The animal;" and he meant to ask with a frown if that was 

the thing 
For a little child like her to say to her lord and master, the 

king? 



84 Practical Recitations. 

He knew not the artless wisdom that would set his wit at 

naught, 
And the little Christel guessed nothing at all of what was in 

his thought. 

But her glance shot up at the question, and the brightness in 

her face, 
Like a sunbeam on a lily, seemed to shine all over the place. 
" What kingdom do you belong to ?" her innocent lips repeat; 
" Why, surely, the kingdom of Heaven I" rings out the answer 

sweet. 
And then for a breathless moment a sudden silence fell, 
And you might have heard the fall of a leaf as they looked at 

little Christel. 

But it only lasted a moment, then rose as sudden a shout — 
"Well done, well done for little Christel!" and the bravos 

rang about. 
For the king in his arms had caught her, to her wondering, 

shy surprise, 
And over and over he kissed her, with a mist of tears in his 

eyes. 
" May the blessing of God," he murmured, "forever rest on 

thy head ! 
Henceforth, by His grace, my life shall prove the truth of what 

thou hast said." 

He gave her the yellow orange, and the golden coin for her own, 
And the school had a royal feast that day whose like they had 

never known. 
To Fraulein, the gentle mistress, he spoke such words of cheer 
That they lightened her anxious labor for many and many a 

year. 
And because in his heart was hidden the memory of this thing, 
The Lord had a better servant, the Lord had a wiser king ! 



CONCEKT KECITATIONS. 



Songs of the Seasons. 

Meta E. B. Thorne. 

[For Four Students.] 
SPRING. 

The king of the day is exerting his power, 

And night and cold at his bidding depart; 
All nature in this resurrection hour 

Will welcome my advent with joyous heart. 
Then hasten, my children ! Ho, March winds wild, 

O'er mountain and valley, blow, madly blow ! 
Proclaim the glad coming of springtime mild, 

And speed the departure of frost and snow ! 
Ye clouds of April, drop down your showers, 

And fill to the brim the rivers and rills 
"With liquid laughter; May's delicate flowers 

Await your dripping 'mong valleys and hills. 

SUMMER. 

Spring scattered the seed with a lavish hand, 

Her whispering breezes and magic showers 
Awoke into life; see the serried ranks stand 

Of fervid July's lush grasses and flowers. 
Then August comes with her sultry noons 

Whose hot breath gildeth the ripening grain, 
And the glorious light of her harvest moons; 

Now the reaper sings as he sweeps the plain: 
" My gleaming scythe I swing to and fro; 

Before it is falling the golden wheat — 
A precious store for the time of the snow; 

All praise to the Giver of mercies so sweet !" 



86 Practical Recitations. 

AUTUMN. 

The plentiful harvest is garnered in; 

But I bring September's bounteous store 
Of glowing fruitage, all hearts to win; 

Now the summer's brilliant reign is o'er. 
Now, royal October the scepter wields, 

In whose wealth of rosy and mellow light 
Seem glorified even the bare brown fields, 

With their delicate veil of haze bedight. 
And e'en when November, dark and chill, 

In her cloud-robe somber broods o'er the earth, 
When the birds are hushed 'mid woodland and hill, 

And the flowers are asleep till the spring's glad birth, 
There are blossoms still for the trustful heart, 

Sweet hopes for what life may yet unfold, 
And memories precious that will not depart 

When fades from the hill-tops the autumn's gold. 

WINTER. 

I bring to the waiting fields the snow, 

December's mantle so soft and pure, 
That covers the sleeping seeds below, 

To remain, till the spring's return, secure. 
Ye think my touch unkind and rude 

When the bracing frost and cold I bring, 
Ye chant in a pining, reproachful mood 

The praises of summer and dewy spring; 
Yet oft at my touch the baleful seeds 

Of pestilence powerless fall in death; 
New vigor to youth and prime proceeds 

From my clear, keen, purifying breath. 
Bnt richer delights to you I bring; 

For mine is the anniversary time, 
When " Good-will to men!" the angels sing, 

" Good-will!" the echoing joy-bells chime. 



Concert Recitations. 



87 



/Solo. 

Concert. 

Solo. 



Concert. 



The Coming of Spring. 

WlLHELM MULLER. 

Up with windows, up with hearts ! 

Swiftly, swiftly ! 
Graybeard Winter seeks to go, 
He wanders troubled to and fro, 
He beats his breast full fearfully 
And packs his duds right hastily, 

With speed, with speed. 



Solo. 

Concert. 

Solo. 



Concert. 



Up with windows, up with hearts ! 

Swiftly, swiftly ! 
The Springtime knocks and stamps without- 
And listen to his joyous shout ! — 
Before the door he takes his stand, 
With beauteous flower-buds in his hand, 

With speed, with speed. 



Solo. 

Concert. 

Solo. 



Concert. 



Open windows, open hearts ! 

Swiftly, swiftly ! 
The brave young South-wind stands below, 
With round red cheeks and eyes aglow, 
And blows that doors and windows rattle, 
Till Winter yields him in the battle — 

With speed, with speed. 



Concert. Open windows, open hearts ! 

With speed, with speed.! 
Wild birds sound the battle-song — 
And hark, and hark ! an echo long, 
An echo from my inmost heart — 
The joys of Spring bid Winter part 
With speed, with speed. 



Practical Recitations. 



The Good Time Coming. 

Charles Mack ay. 

Concert. There's a good time coming, boys, 
A good time coming. 
Solo. We may not live to see the day, 
But earth shall glisten in the ray 

Of the good time coming. 
Cannon-balls may aid the truth, 

But thought's a weapon stronger; 
We'll win our battle by its aid — 
Wait a little longer. 



Concert. There's a good time coming, boys, 
A good time coming. 
Solo. The pen shall supersede the sword, 

And Right, not Might, shall be the lord 

In the good time coming. 
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, 

And be acknowledged stronger; 
The proper impulse has been given — 
Wait a little longer. 

Concert. There's a good time coming, boys, 
A good time coming. 
Solo. War in all men's eyes shall be 
A monster of iniquity 

In the good time coming; 
Nations shall not quarrel then, 

To prove which is the stronger; 
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake — 
Wait a little longer. 



Concert. 



Solo. 



There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming. 
Hateful rivalries of creed 
Shall not make their martyrs bleed 



Concert Recitations. 



89 



In the good time coming. 
Religion shall be shorn of pride, 

And flourish all the stronger; 
And Charity shall trim her lamp — 

Wait a little longer. 



Concert. 



Solo. 



There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming. 
Little children shall not toil, 
Under or above the soil, 

In the good time coming; 
But shall play in healthful fields 

Till limb and mind grow stronger; 
And every one shall read and write — 

Wait a little longer. 



Concert. There's a good time coming, boys, 
A good time coming. 
Solo. The people shall be temperate, 
And shall love instead of hate 

In the good time coming. 
They shall use, and not abuse, 

And make all virtue stronger; 
The reformation has begun — 
Wait a little longer. 



Concert. There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming. 
Let us aid it all we can, 
Every woman, every man, 

The good time coming. 
Smallest helps, if rightly given, 

Make the impulse stronger; 
'Twill be strong enough one day — 

Wait a little longer. 



90 Practical Recitations. 

The Charge at Waterloo. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

[For Boy's Recitation.] 

On came the whirlwind — like the last 
But fiercest sweep of tempest blast; 
On came the whirlwind — steel-gleams broke 
Like lightning through the rolling smoke: 

The war was waked anew. 
Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud, 
And from their throats with flash and cloud 

Their showers of iron threw. 
In one dark torrent, broad and strong, 
The advancing onset rolled along. 
But on the British heart were lost 
The terrors of the charging host; 
For not an eye the storm that viewed 
Changed its proud glance of fortitude; 
Nor was one forward footstep stayed 
As dropped the dying and the dead. 
Down were the eagle-banners sent, 
Down reeling steeds and riders went; 
Corselets were pierced and pennons rent. 

And, to augment the fray, 
Wheeled full against their staggering flanks, 
The English horsemen's foaming ranks 

Forced their resistless way. 
Then to the musket-knell succeeds 
The clash of swords, the neigh of steeds; 
As plies the smith his clanging trade, 
Against the cuirass rang the blade; 
And while amid their scattered band 
Kaged the fierce rider's bloody brand, 
Eecoiled in common rout and fear 
Lancer and guard and cuirassier, 
Horsemen and foot — a mingled host — 
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost. 



Concert Recitations. 91 



Summer Storm. 

James Kussell Lowell. 

[Abbi-eviated for Concert Recitation.] 

[The following selection is peculiarly effective for concert recitation on ac- 
count of the great number and variety of vocal changes. The italicized 
words should be given with abrupt, explosive sounds; the italicized final con- 
sonants with extreme distinctness of articulation ; the pauses indicated by 
dashes should be exaggerated, and the time most accurately marked.] 

Suddenly — all the sky is hid 

As with the shutting of a lid. 
One — by — one — great — drops — are falling, 

Doubtful — and — slow. 
Down the pane they are crookedly crawling, 

And the wine? — breathes low, 

Now — on the hills — I hear the thunder — mutter, 
The wincZ — is gathering in the wes£. 

The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter 
Then droop — to a fitful rest. 

Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, 

And tramples the gi^ass with terrified feet. 

The startled river turns leaden and harsh, 

You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. 

Look, look ! that livid flash ! 
And instantly follows the rattling thunder 
As if some cloud-crag — split asunder — 
Fell — splintering with a ruinous crash. 
Against the windows, the storm comes dashing ; 
Through tattered foliage, the hail — tears crashing; 

The blue lightning— flashes, 

The rapid hail clashes, 

The white waves are tumbling, 

And in one baffled roar, 
The thunder — is rumbling — 

And crashing and crumbling. 



92 Practical Recitations. 



( Whisper) < 



Hush ! Still as death 

The tempest — holds his breath — 

As from a sudden will. 
The rain — stops — short — but from the eaves 
You see it drop and hear it — on the leaves, 
{Half-whisper) All — is — so — still. 

Gone — gone — so soon ! 
The pale and quiet moon 
Makes her calm forehead bare. 
Eo more my half -crazed fancy there. 
Can shape — a gian£ — in the air, 
And the last fragments of the storm, 
Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, 
Silent and few — are drifting over me. 



Song or the Steamer Engine. 

C. B. LeRow. 

[This selection is adapted for Solo and Concert recitation. The first two 
and last two lines of each stanza, and the whole of the last stanza, are to be 
given in concert. The other lines can be assigned to one or to six students— 
the latter arrangement giving greater variety, as the stanzas differ widely in 
style. As the refrain, or chorus, is to imitate the peculiar beat or rhythm of 
the engine, the accent must fall upon the third syllable of each line, while 
each syllable is given with staccato effect, and the whole line on a monotone. 
The fifth stanza represents two equal beats on the two syllables— the rhythm 
of the engine when moving in half time on account of danger.] 

I. 

i ' We are ready for work — 
We are ready for work — " 
So says the great engine when we start 
And the steam comes up from its pulsing heart. 
With its hundred iron arms and hands 
It is waiting to take us to foreign lands, 
And it says in the cheeriest sort of way 
While our friends are watching us down the bay, 

' ' We are ready for work — 
We are ready for work—" 



Concert Recitations. 93 

ii. 

" We will carry you over — 

We will carry you over — " 
It seems to say on the ocean wide 
When no land can be seen on either side; 
And we wonder how it can ever be 
That we can go straight o'er the trackless sea. 
And we watch the engine day by day, 
Encouraged by what it seems to say, 
" We will carry you over — 

We will carry you over — " 

in. 

" Our work is praying — 
Our work is praying — " 
It says on the sunny Sabbath day 
When the passengers meet to sing and pray; 
And through the sermon and chanted psalm 
We listen with hearts subdued and calm 
To the faithful strokes of the engine strong 
As over the ocean we sail along; 

1 ' Our work is praying — 
Our work is praying — " 

IV. 

" Sleep safe till morning — 
Sleep safe till morning — " 
Are the words we hear in the dead of night 
When only the sailors can see a light; 
And the great ship rushes along as free 
As if the sunshine were on the sea; 
And we rest secure near the beating heart 
Of the engine doing its noble part; 

' ' Sleep safe till morning — 
Sleep safe till morning — " 



94 Practical Recitations. 

v. 

" Don't fear— 
Don't fear — " 
It can say no more in the heavy fog 
Which seems its very breath to clog; 
While with hearts grown faint and lips that pray 
We think of the friends who are far away, 
And of hidden perils and sndden death 
Although the engine pants under breath, 

< 'Don't fear— 
Don't fear — " 



VI. 

" It is all right now — 
It is all right now — 
Are the words we hear when the sun peeps through 
And the leaden clouds catch a tint of blue; 
And the iron arms work hard and fast, 
For we are in sight of the land at last. 
And the engine seems as glad as we 
That the ship is now from all danger free. 

" It is all right now — 
It is all right now — " 

VII. 

O brave engine, you little know 
What to your faithful heart we owe. 
You did your duty by day and night; 
As well in the darkness as the light; 
Never letting an hour go by, 
Never stopping to question Why — 
Showing what beauty and grace can be 
In honest Toil and Fidelity. 



Concert Recitations. 95 

The Child on the Judgment-Seat. 

Mrs. E. Charles. 

[Recitation for Two Students] 
FIRST. 

Where hast thou been toiling all day, sweetheart, 

That thy brow is burdened and sad ? 
The Master's work may make weary feet, 

But it leaves the spirit glad. 

SECOND. 

No pleasant garden-toils were mine; 

I have sat on the judgment-seat 
Where the Master sits above, and calls 

The children around His feet. 

FIRST. 

How earnest thou on the judgment-seat ? 

Sweetheart, who set thee there ? 
'Tis a lonely and lofty seat for thee, 

And well might fill thee with care. 

SECOND. 

I climbed on the judgment-seat myself, 

I have sat there alone all day, 
For it grieved me to see the children around 

Idling their life away. 

FIRST. 

And what didst thou on the judgment-seat, 

Sweetheart, what didst thou there ? 
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice ? 

Did the garden mend for thy care ? 

SECOND. 

Nay, that grieved me more; I called and I cried, 

But they left me there forlorn; 
My voice was weak, and they heeded not, 

Or they laughed my words to scorn. 



96 Practical Recitations. 

FIRST. 

Ah, the judgment-seat was not for thee, 

The servants were not thine, 
And the eyes which fix the praise and the blame 

See farther than thine or mine. 

SECOND. 

Should I see the Master's treasures lost, 
The gifts that should feed his poor, 

And not lift my voice — be it weak as it may — 
And not be grieved sore ? 

FIRST. 

But how fared thy garden-plot, sweetheart, 
Whilst thou sat on the judgment-seat ? 

Who watered thy roses and trained thy vines, 
And kept them from careless feet ? 

SECOND. 

Nay, that is saddest of all to me, 

That is the saddest of all. 
My vines are trailing, my roses are parched. 

My lilies droop and fall. 

FIRST. 

Go back to thy garden-plot, sweetheart, 

Go back till the evening falls, 
And bind thy lilies and train thy vines 

Till for thee the Master calls. 
Go make thy garden fair as thou canst, 

Thou workest never alone; 
Perchance he whose plot is next to thine 

Will see it and mend his own. 
And the next shall copy his, sweetheart, 

Till all grows fair and sweet; 
And when the Master comes at eve 

Happy faces His coming shall greet. 
Then shall thy joy be full, sweetheart, 

In thy garden so fair to see, 
In the Master's voice of praise for all, 

In a look of His own for thee. 



Concert Recitations. 97 

The Two Glasses. 

C. B. A. 

[Recitation for Two Students.] 
FIRST. 

There sat two glasses filled to the brim 

On a rich man's table, rim to rim; 

One was ruddy and red as blood, 

And one was as clear as the crystal flood. 

Said the glass of wine to the paler brother: 

SECOND. 

Let us tell the tales of the past to each other; 
I can tell of a banquet and revel and mirth, 
Where the proudest and grandest souls on earth 
Fell under my touch as though struck by blight; 
For I was a king, and I ruled in might; 
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown, 
From the height of fame I have hurled men down, 
I have blasted many an honored name; 
I have taken virtue and given shame; 
I have made the arm of the driver fail, 
And sent the train from the iron rail; 
I have made good ships go down at sea, 
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me; 
For they said, ' Behold, how great you be ! 
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before you fall 7 
And your might and power are over all. ' 
Ho ! ho ! pale brother," laughed the wine, 
; Can you boast of deeds as great as mine ?" 

FIRST. 

Said the water-glass: "I cannot boast 
Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host; 
But I can tell of a heart once sad, 
By my crystal drops made light and glad; 
7 



98 Practical Recitations. 

Of thirsts I've quenched, and brows I've laved; 

Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved; 

I have slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky, 

And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye; 

I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, 

I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain; 

I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, 

That ground out the flour and turned at my will; 

I can tell of manhood debased by you, 

That I have lifted and crowned anew. 

I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; 

I gladden the heart of man and maid; 

I set the chained wine-captive free, 

And all are better for knowing me." 

SECOND. 

These are the tales they told each other, 
The glass of wine and its paler brother, 
As they sat together, filled to the brim, 
On the rich man's table, rim to rim. 



The Sorrow of the Sea. 

Concert. I stood on the shore of the beautiful sea, 
And the billows were rolling wild and free; 
Onward they came with unfailing force, 
Then backward turned in their restless course. 
Ever and ever they rose and fell, 
With heaving and surging and mighty swell: 
Ever and ever sounded their roar, 
Foaming and dashing against the shore. 

Solo. Oh, when shall the ocean's troubled breast 
Calmly and quietly sink to rest ? 
When shall the waves' wild murmurs cease 
And the mighty waters be hushed in peace ? 



Concert Recitations. 



99 



Concert. It cannot be quiet; it cannot rest. 

There must be heaving on ocean's breast, 
The tide must ebb and the tide must flow 
While the changing seasons come and go. 
Oh, strangely glorious, beautiful sea, 
Sounding forever mysteriously, 
Why are thy billows still rolling on 
With that wild and sad and musical tone ? 
• Why is there never repose for thee 
O mighty, murmuring, sounding sea ? 

Solo. Then the ocean's voice I seemed to hear, 
Mournfully, solemnly sounding near, 
Telling of loved ones buried there, 
Of the dying shriek and the dying prayer; 
Telling of hearts still watching in vain 
For those who shall never come back again; 
Oh, no ! the ocean can never rest 
With such secrets hidden within its breast. 
But a day shall come, a blessed day, 
When earthly sorrow shall pass away, 
When the hour of anguish shall turn to peace, 
And even the roar of the waves shall cease. 



Concert. But, oh ! thou glorious, beautiful sea, 

There is health, and joy, and delight in thee. 
Solemnly, sweetly, I hear thy voice 
Bidding me weep and yet rejoice: 
Weep for the loved ones buried beneath, 
Kejoice in Him who has conquered death; 
Weep for the sorrowing, tempest-tossed, 
Kejoice in Him who has saved the lost; 
Weep for the sin and sorrow of strife, 
Rejoice in the hope of eternal life ! 



100 Practical Recitations. 

The Death of our Almanac. 

Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. 

[Selection for Twelve Students.] 

January. Darkness and light reign alike. Snow is 
on the ground, cold is in the air. The winter is blos- 
soming in frost-flowers. Old sounds are silent in the 
forest and in the air. Insects are dead, birds are gone, 
leaves have perished. So hath God wiped out the past ; 
so hath he spread the earth, like an unwritten page, for 
a new year. 

February. As the month wears on its silent work 
begins, though storms rage. The earth is hidden yet, 
but not dead. The sun is drawing near. He whispers 
words of deliverance into the ears of every sleeping 
seed and root that lies beneath the snow. The day 
opens, but the night shuts the earth with its frost-lock ; 
but day steadily gains upon the night. 

March. The conflict is more turbulent, but the vic- 
tory is gained. The world awakes. There come voices 
from long-hidden birds. The smell of the soil is in the 
air. The sullen ice, retreating from open field and all 
sunny places, has slunk to the north of every fence and 
rock. The knolls and banks that face the east or south 
sigh for release, and begin to lift up a thousand tiny 
palms. 

April. The singing month. Many voices of many 
birds call for resurrection over the graves of flowers, 
and they come forth. Go, see what they have lost. 
What have ice, and snow, and storm done unto them? 
How did they fall into the earth, stripped and bare? 
How did they come forth, opening and glorified? Is it, 



Concert Recitations. 101 

— __ ^_ — , , 

then, so fearful a thing to lie in the grave? In its wild 
career, shaking and scourged of storms through its or- 
bit, the earth has scattered away no treasures. The 
Hand that governs in April governed in January. You 
have not lost what God has only hidden. You lose 
nothing in struggle, in trial, in bitter distress. 

May. Flower-month! perfect the harvests of flow- 
ers. Be not niggardly. Search out the cold and re- 
sentful nooks that refused the sun, casting back its 
rays from disdainful ice, and plant flowers even there. 
There is goodness in the worst. There is warmth in 
the coldest. The silent, hopeful, unbreathing sun, 
that will not fret or despond, but carries a placid brow 
through the unwrinkled heavens, at length conquers the 
very rocks, and lichens grow and inconspicuously blos- 
som. What shall not Time do, that carries in its bosom 
Love ? 

June. Eest ! This is the year's bower. Sit down 
within it. The winds bring perfume, the forests sing 
to thee, the earth shows thee all her treasures. The 
air is all sweetness. The storms are but as flocks of 
mighty birds that spread their wings and sing in the 
high heaven. The earth cries to the heavens, " God is 
here!" The heavens cry to the earth, "God is here !" 
The land claims him, and his footsteps are upon the 
sea. sunny joys of sunny June, how soon will you 
be scorched by the eager months coming burning from 
the equator! 

July. Eouse up ! The temperate heats that filled the 
air are raging forward to glow and overfill the earth. 
There are deep and unreached places for whose sake the 
probing sun pierces down its glowing hands. The earth 
shall drink of the heat before she knows her nature or 



102 Practical Recitations, 

her strength. Then shall she bring forth to the utter- 
most the treasures of her bosom. For there are things 
hidden far down, and the deep things of life are not 
known till the fire reveals them. 

August. Keign, thou Fire-month ! Neither shalt 
thou destroy the earth which frosts and ice could not 
destroy. The vines droop, the trees stagger, but every 
night the dew pities them. This is the rejoicing month 
for joyful insects, the most populous and the happiest 
month. The air is resonant of insect orchestras, each 
one carrying his part in nature's grand harmony. Au- 
gust, thou art the ripeness of the year, the glowing cen- 
ter of the great circle. 

September. There are thoughts in thy heart of death. 
Thou art doing a secret work, and heaping up treasures 
for another year. The unborn infant-buds which thou 
art tending are more than all the living leaves. Thy 
robes are luxuriant, but worn with softened pride. More 
dear, less beautiful than June, thou art the heart's 
month. Not till the heats of summer are gone, while 
all its growths remain, do we know the fullness of life. 
Thy hands are stretched out, and clasp the glowing palm 
of August, and the fruit-smelling hand of October. 
Thou dividest them asunder, and art thyself molded of 
them both. 

October. Orchard of the year ! Bend thy boughs to 
the earth, redolent of glowing fruit ! Eipened seeds 
shake in their pods. Apples drop in the stillest hours. 
Leaves begin to let go when no wind is out, and swing 
in long waverings to the earth, which they touch with- 
out sound, and lie looking up, till winds rake them and 
heap them in fence-corners. AVhen the gales come 
through the trees, the yellow leaves trail, like sparks at 



Concert Recitations. 103 

night behind the flying engine. The woods are thinner, 
so that we can see the heavens plainer, as we lie dream- 
ing on the yet warm moss by the singing spring. The 
days are calm. The nights are tranquil. The year's 
work is done. She walks in gorgeous apparel, looking 
upon her long labor, and her serene eye saith, "It is 
good." 

November. Patient watcher, thou art asking to lay 
down thy tasks. Life to thee, now, is only a task ac- 
complished. In the night-time thou liest down, and the 
messengers of winter deck thee with hoar-frosts for thy 
burial. The morning looks upon thy jewels, and they 
perish while it gazes. Wilt thou not come, December? 

December. Silently the month advances. There is 
nothing to destroy, but much to bury. Bury, then, thou 
snow, that slumberously fallest through the still air, the 
hedgerows of leaves ! Muffle thy cold wool about the 
feet of shivering trees ! Bury all that the year hath 
known, and let thy brilliant stars, that never shine as 
they do in thy frostiest nights, behold the work ! But 
know, month of destruction, that in thy constellation 
is set that Star whose rising is the sign, for evermore, 
that there is life in death ! Thou art the month of res- 
urrection. In thee the Christ came. Every star that 
looks down upon thy labor and toil of burial knows that 
all things shall come forth again. Storms shall sob them- 
selves to sleep. Silence shall find a voice. Death shall 
live, Life shall rejoice, Winter shall break forth and blos- 
som into Spring, Spring shall put on her glorious ap- 
parel and be called Summer. It is life ! it is life ! 
through the whole year ! 



104 Practical Recitations, 

Two Epitaphs. 

[The following can be read by a class in concert, or by two sections of a 
class. It is a fine exercise in transition from soft to loud Force, slow to quick 
Time, low to high Pitch, minor to major Inflection.] 

I. 

" Think of Death I" the grave-stones say, — 
" Peace to Life's mad striving !" 

ii. 
But the church-yard daisies, — " Nay, 
Think of Living !" 

" Think of Life !" the sunbeams say, 
O'er the dial flying; 
i. 
But the slanting shadows, — " Nay, 
Think of Dying !" 

" Think of Death !" the night birds say, 
On the storm-blast driving; 
ii. 

But the building swallows, — " Nay, 
Think of Living !" 

u Think of Life I" the broad winds say, 
Through the old trees sighing; 

I. 

But the whirling leaf -dance,— " Nay, 
Think of Dying 1" 

" Think of Death !" the sad bells say, 
Fateful record giving; 
ii. 
Clash the merry Yule-peal,— " Nay, 
Think of Living !" 

Concert. Dying, Living, glad or loath, 
On God's Kood relying; 
Pray He fit us all for both — 
Living, Dying ! From the Qerman. 



Concert Recitations. 105 

The Cataract of Lodore. 

Robert Southey. 

[For Solo and Concert Recitation.] 

[Variations in Force, Time, Pitch, Quality, Staccato and Legato effect, to 
be made according to the idea expressed by the different words.] 

Solo. 

" How does the water come down at Lodore ?" 

My little boy asked me 

Thus, once on a time, 

And moreover he tasked me 

To tell him in rhyme. 

Anon at the word 

There first came one daughter, 

And then came another 

To second and third 

The request of their brother, 

And to hear how the water came down at Lodore, 

So 1 told them in rhyme, for of rhymes I had store, 

And 'twas in my vocation 

For their recreation, 

That so I should sing; 

Because I was Laureate to them and the King. 

Solo. 

From its sources which well 
In the tarn on the fell; 

Through moss and through brake 
It runs and it creeps 
For a while till it sleeps 
In its own little lake; 
It runs through the reeds and away it proceeds 
Through meadow and glade, in sun and in shade, 
And through the wood-shelter, among crags in its flurry 
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry ! 
The cataract strong then plunges along, 
Striking and raging as if a war waging 
Its caverns and rocks among. 



106 Practical Recitations. 

Concert, 
Kising and leaping, 
Sinking and creeping, 
Flying and flinging, 
Writhing and ringing, 
Spouting and frisking, 
Turning and twisting, — 

Solo. 
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 

Concert. 

And shocking and rocking, 

And darting and parting, 

And rattling and battling, 

And shaking and quaking, 

And pouring and roaring, 

And waving and raving, 

And dropping and hopping, 

And working and jerking, 

And moaning and groaning. 
And falling and brawling and sprawling, 
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 
And sounding and bounding and rounding, 
And bubbling and rumbling and tumbling, 
And clattering and battering and shattering. 
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, 
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, 
And curling and whirling and furling and twirling, 
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, 
And dashing and flashing and splashing and crashing — 

Solo. 
And so never ending, but always descending, 
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending 
All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, 
And this way the water comes down at Lodore. 



Concert Recitations, 107 

Cavalry Song. 

Edmund C. Stedman. 

[For Boys' Recitation.'] 
I. 

Our good steeds snuff the winter air, 

Our pulses with their purpose tingle; 
The foeman's fires are twinkling there; 

He leaps to hear our sabers jingle. 

halt ! 

Each carbine send its whizzing ball; 
Now cling ! clang ! forward, all, 
Into the fight ! 

ii. 

Dash on beneath the smoking dome; 

Through level lightnings gallop nearer ! 
One look to Heaven. No thoughts of home; 

The guidons that we bear are dearer. 

charge ! 

Cling ! clang ! forward, all ! 
Heaven help those whose horses fall ! 
Cut left and right ! 

in. 
They flee before our fierce attack ! 

They fall ! they spread in broken surges. 
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, 

And leave the foeman to his dirges. 



WHEEL 



The bugles sound the swift recall; 
Cling ! clang ! backward, all! 

Home, and good-night! 



RECITATIONS FOR MUSIC. 



The Angelus. 

Frances L. Mace. 

[For pianissimo musical accompaniment.] 

Ring soft across the dying day, 

Angelus ! 
Across the amber-tinted bay, 
The meadow flushed with sunset ray,— 
Ring out, and float, and melt away, 

Angelus. 

The clay of toil seems long ago, 

Angelus; 
While through the deepening vesper glow, 
Far up where holy lilies blow, 
Thy beckoning bell-notes rise and flow, 

Angelus. 

Through dazzling curtains of the west, 

Angelus ! 
We see a shrine in roses dressed, 
And lifted high in vision blest, 
Our -very heart-throb is confessed, 

Angelus. 

Oh, has an angel touched the bell, 

Angelus ? 
For now upon its parting swell 
All sorrow seems to sing farewell, 
There falls a peace no words can tell, 

Angelus ! 



Recitations for Music. 109 

Hope's Song. 

Helen M. Winslow. 

The golden dreams of youth 
Assume a guise of truth 

Which age keeps never. 
For Hope's voice singeth ever, 
" Oh. youth and strong endeavor, 
Can win the highest good forever/' 

Love's subtle intuition 
Divines life's glad fruition, 

Distrusting never; 
And sweetly Hope sings ever, 
" True love and sweet endeavor 
Shall hold the highest good forever/ 1 

Love's sacred tryst is broken, 
Heart-breaking words are spoken 

Her bonds to sever; 
But still Hope singeth ever, 
* k Brave heart and strong endeavor 
Must find the highest good forever." 

Pale hands are crossed in death; 
Gone is the quivering breath; 
And still a low voice never 
Stops echoing, echoing ever. 
* • Brave heart and strong endeavor 
Have won the highest sood forever." 



110 Practical Recitations. 

The Sunrise Never Failed us Yet, 

Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 

Upon the sadness of the sea 
The sunset broods regretfully; 
From the far, lonely spaces, slow 
Withdraws the wistful after-glow. 

So out of life the splendor dies; 
So darken all the happy skies; 
So gathers twilight, cold and stern — 
But overhead the planets burn. 

And up the east another day 
Shall chase the bitter dark away; 
What though our eyes with tears be wet ? 
The sunrise never failed us yet ! 

The blush of dawn may yet restore 
Our light, and hope, and joy, once more. 
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget 
That sunrise never failed us yet ! 



A Winter Song. 

[With light, running staccato and legato accompaniments.] 

Oh, summer has the roses 
And the laughing, light south wind, 
And the merry meadows lined 

With dewy, dancing posies; 
But winter has the sprites 
And the witching frosty nights. 

Oh, summer has the splendor 
Of the corn-fields wide and deep, 
Where the scarlet poppies sleep 

And wary shadows wander; 
But winter fields are rare 
With diamonds everywhere. 



Recitations for Music. Ill 

Oh, summer has the wild bees, 

And the ringing, singing note 

In the robin's tuneful throat, 
And the leaf -talk in the trees; 

But winter has the chime 

Of the merry Christmas time. 

Oh, summer has the luster 

Of the sunbeams warm and bright, 

And rains that fall at night 
Where reeds and lilies cluster; 

But deep in winter's snow 

The fires of Christmas glow. 

St. Nicholas. 



The Concert Rehearsal. 

WOLSTAN DlXEY.. 

Oh, it was a musical old Beetle ! 

And oh, it was a honey-throated Bee ! 
But the dandified young Hopper, 
He couldn't sing it proper. 

And the Cricket — out of tune was he. 

They sung and they sung, 
And the harebells swung 

A tinkling obligato in the breeze; 
While the Beetle, singing-master, 
Tried to make them sing it faster. 

By patting off the tempo on his knees. 

And oh ! it was a Robin overheard them. 
Who happened out a-walking in the glade, 

And he laughed in every feather 

When they tried to sing together 
At the funny little noises that they made. 



112 Practical Recitations. 

He listened and he listened, 

And his eyes they fairly glistened 

As the Bee so sweetly bumbled out the air; 

But the Cricket struck another, 

And the Robin thought he'd smother 

Trying not to let them know that he was there. 
i 

Then oh, the Bee declared that " It was shameful !" 
And angrily sipped honey from a comb; 
' l She was ruining her throat 
And wouldn't sing another note 
Until the others studied it at home !" 

The Cricket said that he 
Never could keep in the key 

When the wind was blowing that way from the south, 
And young Hopper made excuses 
In reply to these abuses, 

That he had too much molasses in his mouth. 

Then oh ! the beetle-headed old conductor 
Arose and made a few remarks in turn; 
" The soprano is so vicious 

And affairs so unpropitious, 

The best thing we can do is to adjourn. 

" Taking everything together, 
The molasses and the weather, 

And the fact that we can't any of us sing, 
There is quite sufficient reason 
That we wait another season 

And postpone our little concert till the spring !" 



Recitations for Music. 113 



Rock of Ages. 

[The quoted words can be either sung or recited. The melody should be 
played through once before the beginning of the recitation. The accompani- 
ment, pianissimo, should run through the entire poem, being definite, and 
piano only on the quoted lines.] 

" Kock of ages, cleft for me," 

Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, 
Fell the words unconsciously 

From her girlish, gleeful tongue ; 
Sang as little children sing ; 

Sang as sing the birds in June ; • 
Fell the words like light leaves down 

On the current of the tune — 
" Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" Let me hide myself in Thee," — 

Felt her soul no need to hide ; 
Sweet the song as song could be, 

And she had no thought beside. 
All the words unheedingly 

Fell from lips untouched by care, 
Dreaming not that they might be 

On some other lips a prayer — 
" Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" Rock of ages, cleft for me," 

'Twas a woman sung them now, 
Pleadingly and prayerfully ; 

Every word her heart did know. 
Rose the song, as a storm-tossed bird 

Beats with weary wings the air ; 
Every note with sorrow stirred— 
Every syllable a prayer — 
' ' Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
* Let me hide myself in Thee. " 



114 Practical Recitations. 

" Eock of ages, cleft for me," 

Lips grown aged sung the hymn 
Trustingly and tenderly — 
Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim. 
" Let me hide myself in Thee," 

Trembling though the voice and low, 
Eose the sweet strain peacefully 

Like a river in its flow. 
Sang as only they can sing 

Who life's thorny paths have passed; 
Sang as only they can sing 
Who behold the promised rest — 
" Eock of ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" Eock of ages, cleft for me," 

Sung above a coffin-lid; 
Underneath all restfully 

All life's joys and sorrows hid. 
Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul, 

Nevermore, from wind or tide, 
Nevermore from billows' roll 

Wilt thou need thyself to hide. 
Could the sightless, sunken eyes, 

Closed beneath the soft gray hair, 
Could the mute and stiffened lips 

Move again in pleading prayer — 
Still, aye still, the words would be, 
" Let me hide myself in Thee." 



Poets' Birthdays. 

The Blessing of the Poets. — I think it a very great boon which Heaven 
bestows on any nation when it sends a real poet among the people, like 
Longfellow or Whittier. I can't understand why we take the gift so coldly. 
In some of the poems of Whittier you can almost hear the rustling of the leaves 
of the old family Bible, and in Longfellow's lines you can listen to the rain on 
your roof, as you heard it while lying in your chamber in your childhood. It 
really seems to me that the whole poetic atmosphere of our time has been 
filled with a new fragrance by Whittier and Longfellow. They have taught 
us to prize afresh the loftiest virtues and the lowliest charities. Well may 
they indeed be called " Our Poets of the Household." You may call them 
primary or secondary, if you choose; but their motive-power remains un- 
quenchable and unchallengeable, and their words are graven in the hearts all 
over the human world.— James T. Fields. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Born Nov. 3, 1794. Died June 12, 1878. 



William Ctjllen Bryant. 
Fitz-Greene Halleck. 

Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless 
The heart, — its teachers and its joy, — 

As mothers blend with their caress 

Lessons of truth and gentleness 
And virtue for the listening boy. 

Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day 

Have blossomed on his wandering way; 

Beings of beauty and decay, 

They slumber in their autumn tomb; 

But those that graced his own Green River 
And wreathed the lattice of his home, 
Charmed by his song from mortal doom, 

Bloom on, and will bloom on forever. 



Bryant had a wonderful memory. His familiarity 
with the English poets was such that when at sea, where 
he was always too ill to read much, he would beguile the 



116 Practical Recitations. 

time by recit ng page after page from favorite poems. 
He assured me that however long the voyage, he had 
never exhausted his resources. He was scarcely less fa- 
miliar with the languages and literatures of Germany, 
France and Spain, Greece and Kome. He spoke all liv- 
ing languages except the Greek with facility and cor- 
rectness. — John Bigelow. 



The name of Bryant cannot be mentioned by any 
friend to American letters without respect as well as ad- 
miration. The hold that he has on the prof oundest feel- 
ings of his countrymen is to be referred to the genuine- 
ness, delicacy, depth, and purity of his sentiment. He 
is so genuine that he testifies - to nothing in scenery or 
human life of which he has not had a direct personal 
consciousness. He follows the primitive bias of his na- 
ture rather than the caprices of fancy. His compositions 
always leave the impression of having been born, not 
manufactured or made. — Edwin P. Whipple. 



It is the glory of this man that his character outshone 
even his great talent and his large fame. Distinguished 
equally for his native gifts and his consummate culture, 
his poetic inspiration and his exquisite art, he is honored 
and loved to-day even more for his stainless purity of 
life, his unswerving rectitude of will, his devotion to the 
higher interests of his race, his unfeigned patriotism, and 
his broad humanity. — Key. Henry W. Bellows. 



When Cooper died, the restless city paused to hear 
Bryant's words of praise and friendship. When Irving 



Poets 1 Birthdays. 117 

followed Cooper, all hearts turned to Bryant. Now Bry- 
ant has followed Cooper and Irving, the last of that early 
triumvirate of American literature. The broad and sim- 
ple outline of his character and career had become uni- 
versally familiar like a mountain or the sea. A patriarch 
of our literature, the oldest of our poets, he felt the 
magic of human sympathy, the impulse of his country, 
the political genius of his race, and was a public political 
leader. — George William Curtis. 



A Bryant Alphabet. 

Alike, beneath thine eye, 
The deeds of darkness and of light are done; 

High towards the star-lit sky 
Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun. 

Hymn to the North Star. 

Beneath the forest's skirt I rest, 

Whose branching pines rise dark and high, 
And hear the breezes of the West 

Among the thread-like foliage sigh. 

The West Wind. 

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence 
Came the deep murmur of its throng of men; 

And as its grateful odors met thy sense, 
They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. 

To a Mosquito. 

Darker — still darker ! the whirlwinds bear 
The dust of the plains to the middle air; 
And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 
Of the chariot of God, in the thunder-cloud ! 

The Hurricane. 



118 Practical Recitations. 

Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared 
The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, 
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits. 

The Conjunction of Jujpiter and Venus. 

Far back in the ages, 
The plow with wreaths was crowned; 

The hands of kings and sages 
Entwined the chaplet round. 

Ode for an Agricultural Celebration. 

Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, 
To weave the dance that measures the years; 
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent 
To the furthest wall of the firmament. 

Song of the /Stars. 

Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock 
Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock; 
While those who seek to slay thy children, hold 
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold. 

Hymn of the Waldenses. 

I know where the timid fawn abides 

In the depths of the shaded dell, 
Where the leaves are broad, and the thicket hides 

From the eye of the hunter well. 

An Indian 8to?*y. 

Journeying, in long serenity, away 

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 

Might wear out life like thee ! October. 

Knit they the gentle ties which long 
These Sister States were proud to wear, 

And forged the kindly links so strong 

For idle hands in sport to tear ? Not Yet. 



Poets' Birthday s. 119 

Lament who will, in fruitless tears, 
The speed with which our moments fly; 

I sigh not over vanished years, 
But watch the years that hasten by. 

The Lapse of Time. 

Might but a little part, 
A wandering breath, of that high melody 

Descend into my heart, 

And change it till it be 
Transformed and swallowed up, O love, in thee ! 

The Life of the Blessed. 

Not from the sands or cloven rocks, 

Thou rapid Arve ! thy waters flow; 
Nor earth, within her bosom, locks 

Thy dark unfathomed wells below. 

To the River Arve. 

Oh, deem not they are blest alone 

Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; 
The Power who pities man has shown 

A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

" Blessed are they that Moam." 

Peace to the just man's memory; let it grow 
Greener with years, and blossom through the flight 
Of ages. The Ages. 

the great deep 

Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air 
Above a furnace. Sella. 

Kaise, then, the hymn to Death. Deliverer ! 
God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed 
And crush the oppressor. Hymn to Death. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

To a Waterfall. 



120 Practical Recitations. 

Thou unrelenting Past ! 
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain 

And fetters, sure and fast, 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

The Past. 

Upon the mountain's distant head 
With trackless snows forever white, 

Where all is still, and cold, and dead, 
Late shines the day's departing light. 

' ' Upon the Mountain's Distant Head. " 

Violets spring in the soft May shower; 
There, in the summer breezes, wave 
Crimson phlox and moccasin flower. 

The Maiden's Borrow. 

Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers 
Offered where crowds in reverent worship come 

Or softly breathed amid the tender cares 
And loving inmates of thy quiet home. 

The Life that Is. 

Alexis calls me cruel; 

The rifted crags that hold 
The gathered ice of winter, 

He says, are not more cold. 

Bong from the Spanish. 

Yet these sweet sounds of the early season 
And these fair sights of its sunny days, 

Are only sweet when we fondly listen, 
And only fair when we fondly gaze. 

An Invitation to the Country. 

Leave Zelinda altogether, 
Whom thou leavest oft and long, 

And in the life thou lovest 

Forget whom thou dost wrong. 

The Alcayde of Molina. 



Poets' Birthdays. 121 



The Third of November. 

On my cornice linger the ripe, black grapes ungathered; 

Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, 
Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them 

Drop the heavy fruit of the tall black walnut tree. 

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, 
Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green, 

Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing 
With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. 

Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me; 

Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here; 
Yet be genial airs, and a pleasant sunshine left me, 

Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year. 



The Night Journey of a River. 

darkling River ! Through the night I hear 
Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach; 

1 hear thy current stir the rustling sedge 
That skirts thy bed; thou intermittest not 
Thine everlasting journey, drawing on 

A silvery train from many a woodland spring 
And mountain brook. The dweller by thy side, 
Who moored his little boat upon thy beach, 
Though all the waters that upbore it then 
Have slid away o'er night, shall find, at noon 
Thy channels filled with waters freshly drawn 
From distant cliffs and hollows, where the rill 
Comes up amid the water-flags. All night 
Thou givest moisture to the thirsty roots 
Of the lithe willow and overhanging plane, 
And cherishest the herbage of thy bank, 
Spotted with little flowers, and sendeth up 
Perpetually the vapors from thy face, 
To steep the hills with dew, or darken heaven 
With drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower. 



122 Practical Recitations. 



The Hurricane. 

Lord of the winds ! I feel thee nigh, 
I know thy breath in the burning sky ! 
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, 
For the coming of the hurricane ! 
And lo ! on the wing of the heavy gales, 
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails. 
Silent and slow, and terribly strong, 
The mighty shadow is borne along, 
Like the dark eternity to come; 
While the world below, dismayed and dumb, 
Through the calm of the thick, hot atmosphere 
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 
* * * * 

He is come ! he is come ! Do ye not behold 

His ample robes on the wind unrolled ? 

Giant of air ! we bid thee hail ! — 

How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ! 

How his huge and writhing arms are bent 

To clasp the zone of the firmament, 

And fold, at length, in their dark embrace, 

From mountain to mountain the visible space ! 

Darker — still darker ! the whirlwinds bear 
The dust of the plains to the middle air; 
And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud ! 
You may trace its path by the flashes that start 
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, 
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, 
And flood the skies with a lurid glow. 



Poets' Birthdays. 123 

_ _ _ . ■ . 

Green River. 

Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 

With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, 

And clear the depth where its eddies play, 

And dimples deepen and whirl away, 

And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 

The swifter current that mines its root, 

Through whose shifting waves as you walk the hill, 

The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 

With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 

Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone ! 

Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, 

With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum; 

The flowers of summer are fairest there, 

And freshest the breath of the summer air; 

And sweetest the golden autumn day 

In silence and sunshine glides away. 



The Violet. 

When birchen buds begin to swell, 
And woods the bluebirds' warble know, 

The little violet's modest bell 
Peeps from the last year's leaves below. 

Oft in the sunless April day 

Thy early smile has stayed my walk; 
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May 

I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 

So they who climb to wealth forget 
The friends in darker fortunes tried; 

I copied them, but I regret 
That I should ape the ways of pride. 



124 Practical Recitations. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON, 

Born May 25, 1803. Died April 27, 1882. 



Emerson. 
Mrs. E. C. Kinney. 

Dear Nature's child, he nestled close to her ! 
She to his heart had whispered deeper things 
Than science from the wells of learning brings. 

His still small voice the human soul could stir, 

For Nature made him her interpreter. 
And gave her favorite son far-reaching wings; 
He soared and sang as Heaven's lark only sings, 

Devout in praise, Truth's truest worshiper. 

With eyes anointed, in his upward flight 
He quick discerned what was divine in men, 
Heading the humblest spirit's tongue aright. 

O Prophet, Poet, Leader ! in thy light 
How many saw beyond their natural ken, 
Who follow now the star that led thee then ! 



Emersok's writings call for thought in the reader. 
They demand that one should stop and ask questions, 
should translate what one has read into one's own ordi- 
nary speech, and inquire again if it is true. No one 
should read Emerson who is not willing to have his own 
weakness disclosed to him, and who is not prepared also 
to test what he finds by a standard which is above both 
writer and reader. — Horace E. Scudder. 



Poets' Birthdays. 125 

There are living organisms so transparent that we 
can see their hearts beating and their blood flowing 
through their glassy tissues. So transparent was the 
life of Emerson ; so clearly did the true nature of the 
man show through it. What he taught others to be he 
was himself. His deep and sweet humanity won him 
love and reverence everywhere among those whose 
natures were capable of responding to the highest mani- 
festations of character. — Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



Though Emerson had reached a great age, we were 
not ready to part with him. He was an important 
friend, companion, kinsman, fellow-citizen, to the last; 
a wayfarer everybody was glad to meet; one whose 
enemy none could continue to be; a charmer whose spell 
was not to be escaped. With his imagination for an 
eye, Emerson was a perceiver, and he respected percep- 
tion in himself and others, being as quick and glad to 
quote their perceptions as to announce his own. He 
notes, cites, and lauds every scrap of insight, or ripple of 
tidings over the ocean that heaves from the unknown 
shore towards which he sails. — Ret. 0. A. Bartol. 



Emerso^s faith in America is justified whether we 
trust in the capacities of the individual soul, or whether 
our expectation grows from the promises of a new civili- 
zation. America brings together the races of the world 
as no nation or time ever did before, and Emerson's 
hope for America may yet be justified by a literature in 
harmony with the new time. — George Willis Cooke. 



126 Practical Recitations. 

Long,, long had we heard in India of his name and 
reputation. We wondered what manner of man he was. 
When at last I landed on your continent, how glad I 
should have been to sit at his feet and unfold before 
him the tale of our woe and degradation ! But he had 
gone to his rest, and instead of touching his warm hand 
which had blessed so many pilgrims, I could but kiss 
the cold dust of his nameless grave at the Concord cem- 
etery. — Protap Chunder Mozoomdar. 



An Emerson Alphabet. 

All right activity is amiable. I never feel that any 
man occupies my place, but that the reason why I do not 
have what I wish is, that I want the faculty which en- 
titles. All spiritual or real power makes its own place. 

Aristocracy. 

By right or wrong, 
Lands and goods go to the strong, 
Property will brutely draw 
Still to the proprietor; 
Silver to silver creep and wind, 

And kind to kind. 

The Celestial Love. 

Come see the north wind's masonry: 
Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof. 

The Snow-storm. 

Do not spare to put novels into the hands of young 
people as an occasional holiday and experiment ; but, 
above all, good poetry in all kinds, epic, tragedy, lyric. 

Education. 



Poets' Birthdays. 127 

r 

Europe has always owed to Oriental genius its divine 
impulses. What those holy bards said, all sane men 
found agreeable and true. — Address to Divinity She- 
dents. 



For Nature ever faithful is 

To such as trust her faithfulness. 



Gentle pilgrim, if thou know 
The gamut old of Pan, 
And how the hills began, 
The frank blessings of the hill 
Fall on thee, as fall they will. 



Woodnotes. 



Monadnoc. 



He is great who confers the most benefits. He is 
base — and that is the one base thing in the universe — 
to receive favors and render none. — Compensation. 

Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominion; 
Sailor of the atmosphere, 
Swimmer through the waves of air. 

The Humble-bee. 

Jesus astonishes and overpowers sensual people. They 
cannot unite Him to history, or reconcile Him with 
themselves. — History. 

Knowest thou that wove yon wood-bird's nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 
Painting with morn each annual shell ? 

The Problem. 



128 Practical Recitations. 

Let a man control the habit of expense. Let him see 
that as much wisdom may be expended on a private 
economy as on an empire,, and as much wisdom be drawn 
from it. — Prudence. 

Man was made of solid earth, 

Child and brother from his birth; 

Tethered by a liquid cord 

Of blood through veins of kindred poured. 

The Celestial Lorn, 

No man can learn what he has not preparation for 
learning, however near to his eyes is the object. A 
chemist may tell his most precious secrets to a carpenter, 
and he shall never be the wiser. — Spiritual Laws. 

One harvest from thy field 

Homeward brought the oxen strong; 

A second crop thine acres yield 

Which I gather in a song. The Apology. 

People say sometimes, " See what I have overcome ; 
see how cheerful I am ; see how completely I have tri- 
umphed over these black events." Not if they still re- 
mind me of the black event. — Circles. 

Queen of things ! I dare not die 
In Being's deeps past ear and eye; 
Lest there I find the same deceiver 
And be the sport of Fate forever. 

Ode to Beauty. 

Eiver and rose and crag and bird, 
Frost and sun and eldest night, 

To me their aid preferred, 
To me their comfort plight. Hermione. 



Poets' Birthdays. 129 

Spartans,, stoics, heroes, saints, and gods use a short 
and positive speech. They are never off their centers. 
As soon as they swell and paint and find truth not enough 
for them, softening of the brain has already begun. — The 
Superlative. 

Teach me your mood, patient stars ! 

Who climb each night the ancient sky, 
Leaving on space no shade, no scars, 

No trace of age, no fear to die. The Poet. 

Upborne and surrounded as we are by this all-creating 
nature, soft and fluid as a cloud or the air, why should 
we be such hard pedants and magnify a few forms ? 

History. 

Virtue runs before the Muse, 

And defies her skill; 
She is rapt, and doth refuse 

To wait a painter's will. Loss and Gain. 

Wise, cultivated, genial conversation is the last flower 
of civilization, and the best result which life has to offer 
us, — a cup for gods, which has no repentance. Conver- 
sation is our account of ourselves. — Woman. 



Extract from " Compensation. 

The history of persecution is a history of endeavors to 
cheat nature, to make water run up-hill, to twist a rope 
of sand. It makes no difference whether the actors be 
many or one, a tyrant or a mob. The martyr cannot be 
dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of flame ; 
every prison, a more illustrious abode ; every burned 
9 



130 Practical Recitations. 

book or house enlightens the world ; every suppressed 
or expunged word reverberates through the earth from 
side to side. Hours of sanity and consideration are al- 
ways arriving to communities as to individuals, when 
the truth is seen, and the martyrs are justified. 



The Concord Fight. 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled. 

Here once the embattled farmers stood 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe has long in silence slept: 
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 

And time the ruined bridge has swept 
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone, 
That memory may their deed redeem, 

When like our sires our sons are gone. 



Extract from "Works and Days." 

'Tis a fine fable for the advantage of character over 
talent, the Greek legend of the strife of Jove and Phoe- 
bus. Phoebus challenged the gods and said, " Who will 
outshoot the far-darting Apollo ?" Zeus said, " I will." 
Mars shook the lots in his helmet, and that of Apollo 
leaped out first. Apollo stretched his bow and shot his 
arrow into the extreme west. Then Zeus arose, and with 
one stride cleared the whole distance, and said, " Where 
shall I shoot ? There is no space left." So the bow- 
man's prize was adjudged to him who drew no bow. 



Poets' Birthdays. 131 

Art. 

Give to barrows, trays, and pans 
Grace and glimmer of romance; 
Bring the moonlight into noon 
Hid in gleaming piles of stone; 
On the city's paved street 
Plant gardens lined with lilac sweet, 
Let spouting fountains cool the air, 
Singing in the sun-baked square; 
Let statue, picture, park, and hall, 
Ballad, flag, and festival, 
The past restore, the day adorn, 
And make each morrow a new morn. 
'Tis the privilege of Art 
Thus to play its cheerful part. 



The Rhodora. 

Khodora ! if the sages ask thee why 

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, 

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing 

Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 

Why thou wert there, rival of the rose ! 

I never thought to ask ; I never knew, 

But in my simple ignorance suppose 

The self-same Power that brought me here, brought you. 



132 Practical Recitations. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

Born Aug. 29, 1809. 



Dec. 3, 1879. 



Our Autocrat. 

John G. Whittier. 

His laurels fresh from song and lay, 
Romance and art, so young withal 

At heart, we scarcely dare to say 
We keep his seventieth festival. 

His still the keen analysis 

Of men and moods, electric wit, 

Free play of mirth, and tenderness 
To heal the slightest wound from it. 

And his the pathos touching all 
Life's sins and sorrows and regrets, 

Its hopes and fears, its final call 
And rest beneath the violets. 

His sparkling surface scarce betrays 
The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled. 

The wisdom of the latter days 
And tender memories of the old. 

Though now unnumbered guests surround 
The table that he rules at will, 

Its autocrat, however crowned, 

Is but our friend and comrade still. 

Long may he live to sing for us 

The songs that stay the flight of time, 

And like his Chambered Nautilus, 
To holier heights of beauty climb. 



Poets' Birthdays. 133 

I think that none of us can understand the meaning 
and scope of Dr. Holmes's writings unless we have ob- 
served that the main work of his life has been to study 
and teach an exact science, the noble science of anatomy. 
And let us honor him to-day, not forgetting, as they can 
never be forgotten, his poems, his essays, as a noble rep- 
resentative of the profession of the scientific student and 
teacher. — Chaeles W. Eliot. 



What one does easily is apt to be his forte, though 
years may pass before he finds this out. Holmes's early 
pieces, mostly college-verse, were better of their kind 
than those of a better kind written in youth by some of 
his contemporaries. The humbler the type, the sooner 
the development. The young poet had the aid of a 
suitable habitat ; life at Harvard was the precise thing 
to bring out his talent. There was nothing of the her- 
mit-thrush in him ; his temper was not of the withdraw- 
ing and reflective kind, nor moodily introspective, — it 
throve on fellowship, and he looked to his mates for an 
audience as readily as they to him for a toast-master. — 
Frances H. Underwood. 



One finds nowhere in Holmes's volumes crude and 
unformed thoughts. He writes as clearly as he thinks. 
His sentences come from his pen clean-cut. The lan- 
guage of his prose is pure classical English. His style 
is simple, direct, forcible ; affluent, in the sense that it 
apparently never fails to come spontaneously at need, 
and in the fittest form; but not exuberant to the ob- 
scuring of the thought. Whether he be discussing a 
medical thesis or reading a lyric to classmates and liter- 
ary friends at an anniversary dinner, or sketching char- 



134 Practical Recitations. 

acter in the romance,, or playing the autocrat at the 
breakfast-table, it is sure to be found acting effectively 
on those who hear or read them. — Key. Eay Palmee. 



It is as a writer of humorous poetry that Holmes 
excels. His non-humorous poems are full of beautiful 
passages, as we shall see, but they have not the same 
unique flavor of originality. In one of the great Lon- 
don papers it was editorially stated, not long since, that 
no contemporary American writer had so amused and in- 
structed the insular mind as Holmes had done. The 
one most charming feature of his printed and spoken 
conversation is that he establishes a relation of sympathy 
between himself and his listeners, by expressing for 
them those common, every-day thoughts that we all 
think but rarely say. — ¥m. Sloane Kennedy. 



The grace and gayety, the pathos and melody, the 
wit, the earnestness and shrewd sense of his writings, 
have given Holmes a place, and a sunny place, in the 
popular heart. On his happy birthday it was not Bos- 
ton that sat at table, but the whole country. It was not 
a town meeting, but a national congress. The Autocrat 
is not a mayor, but an emperor, and the toast of the 
day was the toast of appreciative hearts and generous 
souls far beyond the sound of the Atlantic. "The 
Autocrat of the Breakfast-table ; king, live forever !" 
— Geo. Wm. Cuktis. 



Poets* Birthdays. 135 



A Holmes Alphabet. 

Along its front no sabers shine, 

]STo blood-red pennons wave; 
Its banner bears the single line, 
11 Our duty is to save." The Two Armies. 

Bring bellows for the panting winds. 
Hang up a lantern by the moon; 

And give the nightingale a fife, 
And lend the eagle a balloon. 

Tlie Meeting of the Dryads. 

Child of the plowshare, smile; 

Boy of the counter, grieve not. 
Though muses round thy trundle-bed 

Their broidered tissue weave not. 

The Poet's Lot. 

Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the while 
With your lips double-reefed in a snug little smile, 
I leave you two fables, both drawn from the deep, — 
The shells you can drop, but the pearls you may keep. 

Verses for After-dinner. 

Each moment fainter wave the fields 

And wider rolls the sea ; 
The mist grows dark, — the sun goes down, — 

Day breaks, — and where are we ? 

Departed Days. 

Flowers will bloom over and over again in poems as 
in the summer fields, to the end of time, always old 
and always new. Why should we be more shy of re- 
peating ourselves than the spring be tired of blossoms 
or the night of stars ? — The Autocrat of the Breakfast- 
table. 



136 Practical Recitations. 

God of all nations ! Sovereign Lord ! 
In Thy dread name we draw the sword, 
We lift the starry flag on high 
That fills with light our stormy sky. 

Army Hymn. 

How patient Nature smiles at Fame ! 

The weeds that strewed the victor's way, 
Feed on his dust to shroud his name, 

Green where his proudest towers decay. 

A Roman Aqueduct. 

It is likely that the language will shape itself by 
larger forces than phonography and dictionary-making. 
You may spade up the ocean as much as you like, and 
harrow it afterward if you can, but the moon will still 
lead the tides, and the winds will form their surface. — 
The Professor at the Breakfast-table. 

Joy smiles in the fountain, 

Health flows in the rills, 
As their ribbons of silver 

Unwind from the hills. 

Song for a Temperance Dinner. 

Know old Cambridge ? Hope you do. 
Born there ? Don't say so ! I was too. 

Parson TurrelVs Legacy. 

Let each unhallowed cause that brings 

The stern destroyer cease, 
Thy flaming angel fold his wings 

And seraphs whisper Peace ! 

Parting Hymn. 

Many ideas grow better when transplanted into an- 
other mind than in the one where they sprang up. 
That which was a weed in one intelligence becomes a 



Poets* Birthdays. 137 

flower in the other. A flower, on the other hand, may 
dwindle down to a mere weed by the same change. — 
The Poet at the Breakfast-table. 

None wept, — none pitied; — they who knelt 

At morning by the despot's throne 
At evening dashed the lanreled bust 

And spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn. 

The Dying Seneca. 

Over the hill-sides the wild knell is tolling, 
From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; 

As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, 
Circles the beat of the mustering drum. 

Lexington. 

Poor conquered monarch ! though that haughty glance 
Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time, 

And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread 
Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime. 

To a Caged Lion. 

Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her ? 
What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her ? 
Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor. 

Iris, Her Book. 

Kain me sweet odors on the air 
And wheel me up my Indian chair, 
And spread some book not overwise 
Flat out before my sleepy eyes. 

Midsummer. 

Scenes of my youth ! awake, its slumbering fire ! 
Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre ! 
Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear, 
Break through the clouds of Fancy's waning year. 

A Metrical Essay. 



138 Practical Recitations. 

Trees as we see them, love them, adore them in the 
fields, where they are alive, holding their green sun- 
shades over our heads, talking to us with their hundred 
thousand whispering tongues, looking down on us with 
that sweet meekness which belongs to huge but limited 
organisms. — The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table. 

Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street 

Whose narrow gaps afford 
A pathway for her bleeding feet, 

To seek her absent lord. Agnes. 

Virtue — the guide that men and nations own ; 
And Law — the bulwark that protects her throne; 
And Health — to all its happiest charm that lends, — 
These and their servants, man's untiring friends. 

A Modest Request. 

Wan-visaged thing ! thy virgin leaf 
To me looks more than deadly pale, 

Unknowing what may stain thee yet, — 
A poem or a tale. 

To a Blank Sheet of Paper. 

"It ain't jest the thing to grease your ex with ile o' 
vitrul," said the Member. — The Poet at the Breakfast- 
table. 

Ye know not, — but the hour is nigh; 

Ye will not heed the warning breath; 
No vision strikes your clouded eye, 

To break the sleep that wakes in death. 

The Last Prophecy of Cassandra. 

" By Zhorzhe !" as friend Sales is accustomed to cry, 
You tell me they're dead, but I know it's a lie; 
Is Jackson not President ? What was't you said ? 
It can't be; you're joking; what, — all of 'em dead ? 

Once More. 



Poets" Birthdays. 139 

Under the Washington Elm, Cambridge. 

April 27, 1861. 

Eighty years have passed, and more, 

Since under the brave old tree ' 
Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore 
They would follow the sign their banners bore, 

And fight till the land was free. 

Half of their work was done, 

Half is left to do, — 
Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington ! 
When the battle is fought and won, 

What shall be told of you ? 

Hark ! — 'tis the south- wind moans, — 

Who are the martyrs down ? 
Ah, the marrow was true in your children's bones 
That sprinkled with blood the cursed stones 

Of the murder-haunted town ! 

What if the storm-clouds blow ? 

What if the green leaves fall ? 
Better the crashing tempest's throe 
Than the army of worms that gnawed below; 

Trample them one and all ! 

Then, when the battle is won, 

And the land from traitors free, 
Our children shall tell of the strife begun 
When Liberty's second April sun 

Was bright on our brave old tree ! 



140 Practical Recitations. 

The Two Streams. 

Behold the rocky wall 

That down its sloping sides 
Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall 

In rushing river-tides ! 

Yon stream, whose sources run 

Turned by a pebble's edge, 
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun 

Through the cleft mountain-ledge. 

The slender rill had strayed, 

But for the slanting stone, 
To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid 

Of foam-flecked Oregon. 

So from the heights of Will 

Life's parting stream descends, 
And, as a moment turns its slender rill, 

Each widening torrent bends, — 

From the same cradle's side, 

From the same mother's knee, — 
One to long darkness and the frozen tide, 

One to the Peaceful Sea. 



International Ode. 

OUR FATHERS' LAND.* 

God bless our Fathers' Land ! 
Keep her in heart and hand 

One with our own ! 
From all her foes defend, 
Be her brave People's Friend, 
On all her realms descend^ 

Protect her Throne ! 



* Sung in unison by twelve hundred children of the public schools, at the 
visit of the Prince of Wales to Boston, October 18, 1860. Air, " God save the 
Queen." 



Poets' Birthdays. 141 

Father, with loving care 

Guard Thou her kingdom's Heir, 

Guide all his ways: 
Thine arm his shelter be, 
From him by land and sea 
Bid storm and danger flee, 

Prolong his days ! 

Lord, let War's tempest cease, 
Fold the whole Earth in peace 

Under thy wings ! 
Make all Thy nations one, 
All hearts beneath the sun, 
Till thou shalt reign alone, 

Great King of kings ! 



James Russell Lowell's Birthday Festival. 

We will not speak of years to-night, 
For what have years to bring 

But larger floods of love and light, 
And sweeter songs to sing. 

Enough for him the silent grasp 

That knits us hand in hand, 
And he the bracelet's radiant clasp 

That locks our circling band. 

Strength to his hours of manly toil, 

Peace to his starlit dreams ! 
Who loves alike the furrowed soil, 

The music-haunted streams ! 

Sweet smiles to keep forever bright 

The sunshine on his lips, 
And faith that sees the ring of light 

Kound nature's last eclipse. 



142 Practical Recitations. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

Born Feb. 27, 1807. Died March 24, 1882. 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

William W. Story. 

A pure sweet spirit, generous and large 
Was thine, dear poet. Calm, unturbulent, 
Its course along Life's varying ways it went, 

Like some broad river on whose happy marge 

Are noble groves, lawns, towns — which takes the charge 
Of peaceful freights from inward regions sent 
For human use and help and heart's content, 

And bears Love's sunlit sails and Beauty's barge. 

So brimming, deepening ever to the sea 

Through gloom and sun, reflecting inwardly 
The ever-changing heavens of day and night, 

Thy life flowed on, from all low passions free, 
Filled with high thoughts, charmed into Poesy 
To all the world a solace and delight. 



Yes,, we were warm friends. He was a delightful man 
and a great poet. Hawthorne, Emerson, Longfellow, and 
myself were always friends. There were no jealousies 
between us, and each took a pride in the work and 
successes of the other. We would exchange notes upon 
our productions, and if one saw a kindly notice of the 
other it was always cut out and sent him. — John G. 
Whittier. 



Poets' Birthdays. 143 

The magnetism of Longfellow's touch lies in the 
broad humanity of his sympathy which commends his 
poetry to the universal heart. His artistic sense is so 
exquisite that each of his poems is a valuable literary 
study. Longfellow's mind takes a simple,, childlike 
hold of life. His delightful familiarity with the pure 
literature of all languages and times must rank him 
among the learned poets. — George William Curtis. 



It is a singular fact that Longfellow is more popular 
in England than Tennyson, the laureate. Yet perhaps 
it is not so very singular. He sings like one whose 
heart has been warmed at the hearth-stone. There is 
hardly a line of his but would rhyme with the chirp of 
the cricket; hearts are hearts whatever blood quickens 
them, and he has touched the heart as no other poet of 
his day has. Is there any one whose life is likely to 
remind us more forcibly of the sublimity of patience, 
truth, purity, and all the virtues than that of Henry 
Wadsworth Longfellow ? — Kichard Henry Stod- 
dard. 

-♦■ 

A poetical atmosphere, an aroma, hung about Long- 
fellow as about no other of our poets. He was as- 
sociated with memories of the early years of the republic; 
with the picturesque epoch of our national existence; 
with the dawn of democratic institutions, with the 
flushing hope which reddened the sky when the young 
nation committed itself so cordially to faith in man. 
His name was seldom spoken except in connection with 
charity and good- will. And when he died, the sorrow of 
the greatest and of the least was equally sincere. — Eev. 
Octavius B. Frothingham. 



144 Practical Recitations. 

Ca^ it be that a man like this is dead ? I cannot 
belieye it. Like a lark that sings and soars, and still 
sings fading out of sight in the blue heavens. I cannot 
believe that he has gone because he has disappeared 
from our view. A rounded life was his; his work was 
done. Where has he gone ? We may not know as yet. 
So far as we are concerned, he has gone, to quote his 
own words, "into the silent land." We will rejoice that 
he has left behind him words that will sing their song of 
trust and hope for many a year to come. — Rev. Mdstot 
J. Savage. 



A Longfellow Alphabet. 

Awake ! arise ! the hour is late ! 

Angels are knocking at thy door ! 
They are in haste and cannot wait, 

And once departed come no more. 

A Fragment, 

Bear a lily in thy hand; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Maidenhood. 

Closed was the teacher's task, and with heaven in their hearts 

and their faces 
Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full 

sorely, 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand. 

Children of the Lord's Supper. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. Resignation, 



Poets' Birthdays. 145 

Each heart has its haunted chamber, 
"Where the silent moonlight falls! 

On the floor are mysterious footsteps, 
There are whispers along the walls ! 

The Haunted Chamber. 

" Farewell !" the portly landlord cried; 

" Farewell I" the parting guests replied, 
But little thought that never more 
Their feet would pass that threshold o'er. 

Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

Gone are all the barons bold, 
Gone are all the knights and squires; 

Gone the abbot, stern and cold, 
And the brotherhood of friars. 

Oliver Basselin. 

How many centuries has it been 

About those deserts blown ! 
How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 

How many histories known ! 

Sand of the Desert. 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 
The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace, 
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, 
And hold it up and shake it like a fleece. 

The Lighthouse. 

Just above yon sandy bar, 

As the day grows faint and dimmer, 

Lonely and lovely, a single star 
Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 

Chrysaor. 

Knelt the Black Eobe chief with his children, a crucifix fast- 
ened 
High on the trunk of the tree. This was their rural chapel. 

Evangeline. 



146 Practical Recitations. 

Left to myself, I wander as I will, 
And as my fancy leads me, through this house; 
Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete, 
Were I indeed the goddess that he deems me. 

The Masque of Pandora. 

Month after month passed away, and in autumn the ships of 

the merchants 
Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the 

Pilgrims. The Courtship of Miles Standish. 

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face, 
Came from their convent on the shining heights 
Of Pierus, the mountain of delights, 
To dwell among the people at its base. 

ThedYine Muses. 

4 ' O Caesar, we who are about to die 
Salute you !" was the gladiators' cry 
In the arena, standing face to face 
With death and with the Koman populace. 
e Morituri Salutamus. 

Peradventure of old, some bard in Ionian Islands, 
Walking alone by the sea, hearing the wash of the waves, 
Learned the secret from them of the beautiful verse elegiac. 

Elegiac Verse. 

Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 

To an Old Danish JSong-booJc. 

Kiver ! that in silence windest 
Through the meadows, bright and free, 

Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea ! 

To the River Charles. 



Poets' Birthdays. 147 

Sudden and swift, a whistling ball 
Came out of a wood, and the voice was still; 
Something I heard in the darkness fall, 
And for a moment my blood grew chill. 

Killed at the Ford. 

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, 
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domains. 

Autumn. 

Up soared the lark into the air, — 
A shaft of song, a winged prayer, 
As if a soul, released from pain, 
Were flying back to heaven again. 

The Sermon of St. Francis. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my 

brain; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again. 

The Belfry of Bruges. 

Whereunto is money good ? 
Who has it not wants hardihood; 
Who has it has much trouble and care; 
Who once has had it has despair. 

Poetic Aphorisms. 



" Excelsior !' 



Excelsior. 



Youth is lovely, age is lonely, 
Youth is fiery, age is frosty; 
You bring back the days departed, 
And the beautiful Wenonah. 

Hiawatha. 

Zeal was stronger than fear or love. 

Tales of a Wayside Inn. 



148 Practical Recitations. 

Musings. 

[An early poem, not usually published.] 

I sat by my window one night, 
And watched how the stars grew high, 

And the earth and skies were a splendid sight 
To a sober and musing eye. 

From heaven the silver moon shone down, 
With a gentle and mellow ray, 

And beneath, the crowded roofs of the town 
In broad light and shadow lay. 

A glory was on the silent sea, 

And mainland and island too, 
Till a haze came over the lowland lea, 

And shrouded the beautiful blue. 

Bright in the moon the autumn wood 

Its crimson scarf unrolled, 
And the trees like a splendid army stood, 

In a panoply of gold ! 

I saw them waving their banners high, 
As their crests to the night wind bowed; 

And a distant sound on the air went by, 
Like the whispering of a crowd. 

Then I watched from my windows how fast 

The lights around me fled, 
As the wearied man to his slumber passed, 

And the sick one to his bed. 

All faded save one; that burned 
With a distant and steady light; 

But that, too, went out, and I turned 
"When my own lamp within shone bright ! 



Poets' Birthdays. 149 

Thus, thought I, our joys must die; 

Yes, the brightest from earth we win; 
Till each turns away, with a sigh, 

To the lamp that burns brightly within. 



The City and the Sea. 

The panting City cried to the Sea, 
" I am faint with heat, — breathe on me ! 

And the Sea said, "Lo, I breathe ! but my breath 
To some will be life, to others death I" 

As to Prometheus, bringing ease 
In pain, come the Oceanides, 

So to the City, hot with flame 

Of the pitiless sun, the east wind came. 

It came from the heaving breast of the deep, 
Silent as dreams are, and sudden as sleep. 

Life-giving, death-giving, which will it be, 
O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea ? 



Loss and Gain. 

When I compare 
What I have lost with what I have gained, 
What I have missed with what attained, 
Little room do I find for pride. 

I am aware 
How many days have been idly spent ; 
How like an arrow the good intent 
Has fallen short or been turned aside. 



150 Practical Recitations. 

But who shall dare 
To measure loss and gain in this wise ? 
Defeat may be victory in disguise; 
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. 



Charles Sumner. 

Garlands upon his grave, 
And flowers upon his hearse, 

And to the tender heart and brave 
The tribute of this verse. 

His was the troubled life, 

The conflict and the pain, 
The grief, the bitterness of strife, 

The honor without stain. 

Death takes us by surprise, 
And stays our hurrying feet; 

The great design unfinished lies, 
Our lives are incomplete. 

But in the dark unknown 

Perfect their circles seem, 
Even as a bridge's arch of stone 

Is rounded in the stream. 

Were a star quenched on high, 

For ages would its light, 
Still traveling downward from the sky, 

Shine on our mortal sight, 

So when a great man dies, 

For years beyond our ken 
The light he leaves behind him lies 

Upon the paths of men. 



Poets 1 Birthdays. 151 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Born Feb. 22, 1819. 



James Russell Lowell. 

[HARVARD COMMENCEMENT POEM.] 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

This is your month, the month of perfect days, 

Birds in full song and blossoms all ablaze; 

Nature herself your earliest welcome breathes, 

Spreads every leaflet, every bower in wreaths; 

Carpets her paths for your returning feet, 

Puts forth her best your coming steps to greet; 

And Heaven must surely find the earth in tune 

"When Home, sweet Home, exhales the breath of June. 

These blessed days are waning all too fast, 

And June's bright visions mingling with the past; 

Lilacs have bloomed and faded, and the rose 

Has dropped its petals, but the clover blows 

And fills its slender tubes with honeyed sweets; 

The fields are pearled with milk-white margarites; 

The dandelion, which you sang of old, 

Has lost its pride of place, its crown of gold, 

But still displays its feathery-mantled globe, 

Which children's breath or wandering winds unrobe. 

These were your humble friends; your opened eyes 

Nature had trained her common gifts to prize; 

Not Cam or Isis taught you to despise 

Charles, with his muddy margin, and the harsh, 

Plebeian grasses of the reeking marsh. 



152 Practical Recitations. 

New England's home-bred scholar, well you knew 
Her soil, her speech, her people, through and through, 
And loved them ever with the love that holds 
All sweet, fond memories in its fragrant folds. 
Though far and wide your winged words had flown, 
Your daily presence kept you all our own, 
Till with a sorrowing sigh, a thrill of pride, 
We heard your summons, and you left our side 
For larger duties and for tasks untried. 

Atlantic Monthly. 



We have been under the necessity of telling some un- 
pleasant truths about American literature from time to 
time; and it is with hearty pleasure that we are now 
able to own that the Britishers have been, for the pres- 
ent, utterly aud apparently hopelessly beaten by a Yan- 
kee in one important department of poetry. The tyr- 
anny of a vulgar public opinion and the charlatanism 
which is the price of political power, are butts for the 
shafts of the satirist which European poets may well 
envy Mr. Lowell. — North British Review. 



Though eminent and able in many ways, Lowell re- 
mains absolutely a poet in feeling. His native genius 
was fostered by the associations of a singularly beautiful 
home ; nourished by the works of the dramatists, by the 
ideal pictures of poets and novelists, by the tender 
solemnity of the discourses of his father, and of Chan- 
ning and others of his father's friends. Though he was 
not a rhyming prodigy like Pope, lisping in numbers, 
his first effusions as he came to manhood were in poetic 
form. — Frances H. Underwood. 



Poets^ Birthdays. 153 

Lowell is a remarkable man and poet. That he is 
one of the first poets of this age^ no man will deny. He 
is sincerely a reformer ; his sympathies are entirely with 
the oppressed and down-trodden. Some of his poems 
are exceedingly beautiful, while others are full of grand 
thoughts which strike upon the ear and heart like the 
booming cannon-shot, which tells that an ardently de- 
sired conflict has commenced. — David W. Bartlett. 



The most characteristic and most essential happens 
to be the most salient quality of Mr. Lowell's style. It 
is a wit that is as omnipresent and as tireless as electric- 
ity itself. The effect is quite indescribable. We are 
sure that no other equal amount of literature could be 
produced that would yield to a competent assay a larger 
net result of pure wit. Generally the spirit of the wit 
is humane and gracious. — W. 0. Wilkinson. 



Mr. Lowell says somewhere that the art of writing 
consists largely in knowing what to leave in the ink-pot. 
How many volumes of Lowell's prose works if not in 
the waste-basket are almost as effectually buried in 
papers and magazines ? What his working life has given 
to the world will give the reader some notion of what 
the world has not got, and will serve to call attention to 
the condensed wealth contained in " Among my Books" 
and " My Study Windows." — Key. H. E. Haweis. 



154 Practical Recitations. 

A Lowell Alphabet. 

Another star 'neath Time's horizon dropped 
To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas; 

Another heart that beat for freedom stopped, — 
What mournful words are these ! 

To the Memory of Hood. 

Bowing then his head, he listened 

For an answer to his prayer; 
No loud burst of thunder followed, 

Not a murmur stirred the air. 

A Parable. 

Care, not of self, but of the common weal, 
Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead 
A look of patient power and iron will. 

A G-lance behind the Curtain. 

Dear, common flower, that grow'st beside the way 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
First pledge of blithesome May. 

To the Dandelion. 

Each man is some man's servant; every soul 
Is by some other's presence quite discrowned; 
Each owes the next through all the imperfect round. 

The Pioneer. 

For mankind are one in spirit, 

And an instinct bears along, 
Bound the earth's electric circle, 

The swift flash of right or wrong. 

The Present Crisis. 

Glorious fountain ! 

Let my heart be 

Fresh, changeful, constant, 

Upward, like thee ! 

The Fountain. 



Poets* Birthdays. 155 

He could believe the promise of to-morrow 
And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day; 

He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow 
Than the world's seeming loss could take away. 

Ode. 

It is God's day. It is Columbus's, 

A lavish day ! One day, with life and heart, 

Is more than time enough to find a world. 

Columbus. 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Everything is happy now, 
Everything is upward striving. 

The Vision of Sir Launfal. 

Knew you what silence was before ? 
Here is no startle of dreaming bird 
That sings in his sleep, or strives to sing. 

Pictures from Appledore. 

Life may be given in many ways, 

And loyalty to Truth be sealed 

As bravely in the closet as the field. 

Commemoration Ode. 

My soul went forth, and, mingling with the tree, 
Danced in the leaves; or, floating in the cloud, 
Saw its white double in the stream below. 

Tinder the Willows. 

Not always unimpeded can I pray, 

Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim. 

Sea-weed. 

O realm of silence and of swart eclipse, 

The shapes that haunt thy gloom 
Make signs to us, and move thy withered lips 

Across the gulf of doom. 

To the Past. 



156 Practical Recitations. 

Pan leaps and pipes all summer long, 
The fairies dance each full-mooned night, 
Would we but doff our lenses strong, 
And trust our wiser eyes' delight. 

Tlie Foot-path. 

Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, 
And, listening fearfully, he heard once more 
The low voice murmur " Khoecus," close at hand. 

Rhoecus. 

Roots, wood, bark, and leaves singly perfect may be, 
But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don't make a tree. 

A Fable for Critics. 

Since first I heard our North wind blow, 
Since first I saw Atlantic throw 
On our fierce rocks his thunderous snow, 
I loved thee, Freedom ! 

Ode to France. 

Thine is music such as yields 
Feelings of old brooks and fields, 
And, around this pent-up room, 
Sheds a woodland, free perfume. 

To Perdita 7 Singing. 

Untremulous in the river clear, 

Towards the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge; 

So still the air that I can hear 

The slender clarion of the unseen midge. 

/Summer Storm. 

Violet ! sweet violet ! 
Thine eyes are full of tears; 

Are they wet 

Even yet 
With the thought of other years ? 

Song. 



Poets' Birthdays. 157 

"Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right 
To the firm center lays its moveless base. 

Prometheus. 

Extemp'ry mammoth turkey-chick fer a Fejee Thanksgiving 

The Biglow Papers. 

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily 
Above that she forgets her ties to earth. 

Irene. 






Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru' the winder, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone 
'Ith no one nigh to hender. 



The Courtin\ 



The First Snow-fall. 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 

With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm -tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new roof 'd with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow; 

The stiff sails were softened to swan's down, 
And still flutter'd down the snow. 

I stood and watch'd by the window 

The noiseless work of the sky, 
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds 

Like brown leaves whirling by. 



158 Practical Recitations. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little head-stone stood; 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
Saying, ' ' Father, who makes it snow ?" 

And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 

Again I look'd at the snow-fall, 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arch'd o'er our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heap'd so high. 

I remember'd the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep-plung'd woe. 

And again to the child I whisper'd, 
' ' The snow that husheth all, 

Darling, the merciful Father 
Alone can make it fall !" 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kiss'd her; 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister, 

Folded close under deepening snow. 



Poets* Birthdays. 159 

Abraham Lincoln. 

Nature, they say, doth dote, 

And. cannot make a man 
Save on some worn-out plan, 
Repeating us by rote. 
For him her Old World molds aside she threw, 
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast 
Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, 
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. 

How beautiful to see 
Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, 
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, 
Not lured by any cheat of birth, 
But by his clear-grained human worth, 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 
They knew that outward grace is dust; 
They could not choose but trust 
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, 

And supple-tempered will, 
That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. 
His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind — 
Broad prairie, rather, genial, level-lined, 
Fruitful and friendly for all human kind. 
Here was a type of the true elder race, 
And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. 



Wendell Phillips. 

He stood upon the world's broad threshold ; wide 
The din of battle and of slaughter rolled; 

He saw God stand upon the weaker side, 
That sank in seeming loss before its foes; 

Many there were who made great haste and sold 
Unto the cunning enemy their swords. 



160 Practical Recitations. 

He scorned their gifts of fame, and flower, and gold, 
And underneath their soft and flowery words 

Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went 
And humbly joined him to the weaker part. 

Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content 
So he could be the nearer to God's heart, 

And feel its solemn pulses sending blood 

Through all the wide-spread veins of endless good. 



Feeedom. 



Men ! — whose boast it is that ye 
Come of fathers brave and free, 
If there breathe on earth a slave, 
Are ye truly free and brave ? 
If ye do not feel the chain 
When it works a brother's pain, 
Are ye not base slaves indeed — 
Slaves unworthy to be freed ? 

Is true Freedom but to break 
Fetters for our own dear sake, 
And, with leathern hearts, forget 
That we owe mankind a debt ? 
No ! — true freedom is to share 
All the chains our brothers wear, 
And with heart and hand to be 
Earnest to make others free ! 

They are slaves who fear to speak 

For the fallen and the weak; 

They are slaves who will not choose 

Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, 

Kather than in silence shrink 

From the truth they needs must think. 

They are slaves who dare not be 

In the right with two or three. 



Poets' Birthdays. 161 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Born Dec. 17, 1807. 



To John G. Whittier. 

James Kussell Lowell. 

New England's poet, rich in love as years, 
Her hills and valleys praise thee, and her brooks 
Dance to thy song; to her grave sylvan nooks 

Thy feet allure ns, which the wood-thrush hears 

As maids their lovers, and no treason fears. 

Through thee her Merrimacks and Angloochooks, 
And many a name uncouth, win loving looks, 

Sweetly familiar to both England's years. 

Peaceful by birthright as a virgin lake 
The lily's anchorage which no eyes behold 

Save those of stars, yet for thy brother's sake 
That lay in bonds, thou blew'st a blast as bold, 

As that wherewith the heart of Roland brake 
Far heard through Pyrennean valleys cold. 



If there is any one in our age whom all men will ad- 
mit to have been born a poet, it is Whittier. He is less 
indebted to art, to scholastic culture, to the influences 
of literary companionship, than any of his brethren. 
He is a fiery apostle of human brotherhood, and has 
chanted anathemas against war, and every form of cruel- 
ty and superstition. He is eminently a national poet. 
His mind is in full sympathy with the progressive ideas 
of the New World. — Frances H. Underwood. 



162 Practical Recitations. 



Much of Whittier's work has been in the form of con- 
tributions to journals which he has edited, and the two 
volumes which now constitute his collected prose writ- 
ings have been gathered from these occasional papers. 
Himself of Quaker descent and belief, he has touched 
kindly but firmly the changing life of the day which cul- 
minated in the witchcraft delusion and displayed itself 
in the persecution of the Quakers. The carelessness of 
literary fame which Whittier has shown may be referred 
to the sincerity of his devotion to that which literature 
affects, and he has written and sung out of a heart very 
much in earnest to offer some help, or out of the pleas- 
ure of his work. The careful student of his writings 
will always value most the integrity of his life. — Horace 
E. Scudder. 



Whittier's genius is Hebrew — more so than that of 
any other poet now using the English language. He is 
a flower of the moral sentiment in its masculine rigor, 
climbing like a forest pine. In this respect he affiliates 
with Wordsworth, and, going farther back, with Milton, 
whose tap-root was Hebrew. The man and the poet are 
one and the same. — Key. David A. Wasson". 



Whittier is in some respects the most American of 
all the American poets. It is safe to say that he has 
been less influenced by other literatures than any of our 
poets, with the exception, perhaps, of Bryant. The af- 
fectionate simplicity of Whittier's nature is seen in the 
poems which he addressed to his personal friends and to 
those whose life-pursuits ran in the same channels as his 
own moral sympathies. — Bichard Henry Stoddard. 



Poets* Birthdays. 163 

I have not seen John Greenleaf Whittier, but I have 
had correspondence with him and have great affection 
for him. During the American war an eminent citizen 
of Massachusetts told me he thought there was no man 
in the United States whose writings at that time, and 
for some years before then, had had such great influence 
on public opinion as the writings of Whittier. If God 
gives a real poet to the people at a time like that, does 
He not verily speak to the people and ask them to return 
to the ways of mercy and righteousness ? — Joins" Bkight. 



A Whittier Alphabet. 

A cottage hidden in the wood, 
Bed through its seams a light is glowing, 

On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude 
A narrow luster throwing. 

Mogg Megone. 

But welcome, be it old or new, 

The gift which makes the day more bright, 
And paints upon the ground of cold 

And darkness warmth and light. 

Flowers in Winter. 

Cheerily then, my little man, 

Live and laugh as boyhood can ! 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy 

Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 

The Barefoot Boy. 

Down on my native hills of June 

And home's green quiet, hiding all, 
Fell sudden darkness like the fall 

Of midnight upon noon ! 

The Rendition. 



164 Practical Recitations. 

Early hath the spoiler found thee, 

Brother of our love, 
Autumn's faded earth around thee, 

And its storms above ! 

On the Death of 8. 0. Torreij. 

Father, to Thy suffering poor 
Strength and grace and faith impart, 

And with Thy own love restore 
Comfort to the broken heart. 

The Familists 1 Hymn. 

God's stars and silence taught thee 

As His angels only can, 
That the one sole sacred thing beneath 

The cope of heaven is Man. 

The Branded Hand. 

How hushed the hiss of party hate, 

The clamor of the throng ! 
How old, harsh voices of debate 

Flow into rhythmic song ! 

My Birthday. 

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 

Of uneventful years; 
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 

And reap the autumn ears. 

My Playmate. 

Just then I felt the deacon's hand 
In wrath my coat-tail seize on; 

I heard the priest cry, " Infidel !" 
The lawyer mutter, " Treason !" 

A Sabbath Scene. 

Know we not our dead are looking 
Downward with a sad surprise, 

All our strife of words rebuking 
With their mild and loving eyes ? 

A Visit to Washington. 



Poets' Birthdays, 165 

Lift again the stately emblem 

On the Bay State's rusted shield; 
Give to Northern winds the Pine Tree 

On our banner's tattered field. 

The Pine Tree. 

More than clouds of purple trail 

In the gold of setting clay; 
More than gleams of wing or sail 

Beckon from the sea-mist gray. 

The Vanishers. 

No perfect whole can our nature make, 
Here or there the circle will break; 

The orb of life as it takes the light 
On one side, leaves the other in night. 

The Preacher. 

friends whose hearts still keep their prime, 
Whose bright example warms and cheers, 

Ye teach us how to smile at Time, 
And set to music all his years. 

*Tlie Laurels. 

Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown 
Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone 
Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand. 

Trust. 

Quiet and calm, without a fear 
Of danger darkly lurking near, 
The weary laborer left his plow, 
The milkmaid caroled by her cow. 

Pentucket. 

Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see, 
By dawn or sunset shone across, 
When the ebb of the sea has left them free 
To dry their fringes of gold-green moss. 

The Wreck of Rivermouth. 



166 Practical Recitations. 

So shall the Northern Pioneer go joyful on his way 
To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay. 

The Crisis. 

Thank God that I have lived to see the time 
When the great truth begins at last to find 
An utterance from the deep heart of mankind, 

Earnest and clear, that all Revenge is Crime ! 

Abolition of the Gallows. 

Unchanged by our changes of spirit and frame 
Past, now, and henceforward the Lord is the same; 
Though we sink in the darkness, His arms break our fall, 
And in death as in life He is Father of all ! 

The Quaker Alumni. 

Vain pride of star-lent genius ! — vain 
Quick fancy and creative brain, 
Unblest by prayerful sacrifice, 
Absurdly great or weakly wise ! 

The Chapel of the Hermits. 

Wherever Freedom shivered a chain God speed, quoth I; 
To Error amidst her shouting train I gave the lie. 

My Soul and I. 

Ximena, speak and tell us 

Who has lost, and who has won ? 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, 
Rolling fast and frightful on. 

The Angels of Buena Vista. 

Yon mountain's side is black with night, 
While, broad-orbed, o'er its gleaming crown, 

The moon, slow rounding into sight, 
On the hushed, inland sea looks down. 

Summer by the Lakeside. 

Zephyr-like o'er all things going 
When the breath divine is flowing, 
All my yearnings to be free 
Are as echoes answering Thee. 

Hymn from the French. 



Poets" Birthdays, 167 

The Moral Warfare. 

John G. Whittier. 

"When Freedom on her natal day 

Within her war-rocked cradle lay, 

An iron race around her stood, 

Baptized her infant brow in blood; 

And through the storm which round her swept 

Their constant ward and watching kept. 

Then, where our quiet herds repose 
The roar of baleful battle rose, 
And brethren of a common tongue 
To mortal strife as tigers sprung; 
And every gift on Freedom's shrine 
Was man for beast, and blood for wine ! 

Our fathers to their graves have gone: 
Their strife is past — their triumph won; 
But sterner trials wait the race 
Which rises in their honored place — 
A moral warfare with the crime 
And folly of an evil time. 

So let it be. In God's own might 

We gird us for the coming fight, 

And, strong in Him whose cause is ours, 

In conflict with unholy powers, 

We grasp the weapon He has given — 

The light, and truth, and love of heaven. 



Eecektly a number of school-children of Girard, Pa., 
wrote a letter to John G. Whittier, the Quaker poet, 
telling him that they had learned, to recite " The Barefoot 
Boy/' "The Buskers/' and "Maud Muller," and clos- 
ing thus: "If it would not be too much trouble, please 



168 Practical Recitations, 

write a verse for us* — something that we could learn and 
always remember as haying been written by you especially 
for us." In response he sent the following: 

' ' Faint not and falter not, nor plead 

Your weakness. Truth itself is strong; 
The lion's strength, the eagle's speed, 
Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong. 

" Your nature, which, through fire and blood, 
To place or gain can find its way, 
Has power to seek the highest good, 
And duty's holiest call obey." 



My Country, 

Land of the forest and the rock, 

Of dark-blue lake and mighty river, 
Of mountains reared aloft to mock 
The storm's career, the lightning's shock; 

My own green land forever ! 
O never may a son of thine, 
Where'er his wandering steps incline, 
Forget the skies which bent above 
His childhood like a dream of love. 



Jomsr G. Whittiee attended a reunion of his school- 
mates at Haverhill, Mass., on the 10th of September, 
1885. He was of the Class of '27. He wrote a poem 
for the occasion, which was read by a cousin of his. It 
is entitled "1827-1885/' and is as follows: 

The gulf of seven and fifty years 
We stretch our welcoming hand across; 
The distance but a pebble's toss 

Between us and our youth appears. 



Poets' Birthdays. 169 

For in life's school we linger on, 

The remnant of a once fnll list; 

Conning onr lessons, undismissed, 
With faces to the setting sun. 

And some have gone the unknown way, 

And some await the call to rest; 

Who knoweth whether it is best 
For those who went or us who stay ? 

And yet, despite of loss and ill, 

If faith and love and hope remain, 

Our length of days is not in yam, 
And life is well worth living still. 

Still to a gracious Providence 
The thanks of grateful hearts are due 
For blessings when our lives were new — 

For all the good vouchsafed us since. 

The pain that spared us sorer hurt; 

The wish denied, the purpose crossed; 

And pleasure, fond occasions lost, 
These mercies to our small desert. 

'Tis something that we wander back, 

Gray pilgrims, to the ancient ways, 

And tender memories of old days 
Walk with us by the Merrimac. 

That even in life's afternoon 

A sense of youth comes back again, 

As though this cool September rain 
The still green woodlands dream of spring. 

The eyes, grown dim to present things, 
Have keener sight for by-gone years, 
And sweet and clear in deafening ears 

The bird that sang at morning sings. 



170 Practical Recitations. 

Dear comrades, scattered wide and far 
Send from their homes their kindly word; 
And dearer ones, unseen, unheard, 

Smile on us from some heavenly star. 

For life and death with God are one; 
Unchanged by seeming change, His care 
And love are round us here and there; 

He breaks no thread His hands have spun. 

Soul touches soul; the muster-roll 

Of life eternal has no gaps; 

And after half a century's lapse 
Our school-day ranks are closed and whole. 

Hail and farewell ! We go our way 
Where shadows end, we trust, in light; 
The star that ushers in the night 

Is herald also of the day. 



The Light that is Felt. 

A tender child of summers three, 
Seeking her little bed at night, 

Paused on the dark stair timidly. 

" O mother; take my hand," said she, 
" And then the dark will all be light." 

We older children grope our way 

From dark behind to dark before; 
And only when our hands we lay, 
Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day, 
And there is darkness nevermore. 

Reach downward to the sunless days 
Wherein our guides are blind as we, 

And faith is small and hope delays; 

Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise, 
And let us feel the light of Thee. 



DECOKATION DAY. 



Decoration Day. 

Henry "Wadsworth Longfellow. 

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest 
On this Field of the Grounded Arms, 

Where foes no more molest, 
Nor sentry's shot alarms ! 

Ye have slept on the ground before, 

And started to your feet 
At the cannon's sudden roar, 

Or the drum's redoubling beat. 

But in this camp of Death 
No sound your slumber breaks; 

Here is no fevered breath — 
No wound that bleeds and aches. 

All is repose and peace; 

Untrampled lies the sod; 
The shouts of battle cease: 

It is the Truce of God ! 

Best, comrades, rest and sleep ! 

The thoughts of men shall be 
As sentinels to keep 

Your rest from danger free. 

Your silent tents of green 
We deck with fragrant flowers; 

Yours has the suffering been, 
The memory shall be ours. 



172 Practical Recitations. 

Between the Graves. 

Harriet Prescott Spofford. 

Where blood once quenched the camp-fire's brand, 
On every sod throughout the land 

The silver showers slip softly down; 
On every sod some growing stem 

Lifts to the light a shining crown. 

For underneath her bending blue, 
With leaf and sunshine, moon and dew, 

Glad Nature gilds the graveside gloom, 
Nor asks what passions stirred the dust 

Through which her pulses spring to bloom. 

While from the gardens of the South, 

Like blessings blown from some warm mouth, 

The wooing wind steals all day long — 
Steals linger ingly from grave to grave, 

With breath of blossom, breath of song. 

A common flag, breeze, showers and flowers, 
Are weaving all these sunny hours, 

Where broken hearts and hopes are hid, 
And the great mother on each bed 

Lays it, a fragrant coverlid. 

You, who with garlands go about, 
As the tree-tilting bird pours out 

O'er either mound his singing bliss, 
Oh, kind as birds and breezes, leave 

A flower on that grave, and on this ! 

For, lo, the eternal truce of death 
Was called upon the passing breath, 

And all the phantom hates, that shed 
Their shadows round us as they stalked, 

Have no remembrance with the dead ! 



Decoration Day. 173 

Red, White, and Blue. 

Harriet McEwen Kimball. 

Eed Cypress ! unto him who grieves, 
Beading sad legends in thy leaves, 

And finding in thy flower 
An emblem of the heart that bleeds, 
Say: The red blossom w T hich I bear 
Doth symbolize 
The sacrifice 

Of that snblimest hour 
When Love fulfilled all human needs; 
Bound Death, the Victor, as a slave; 
Flung wide the sealed gates of the grave, 
And set His angels, warders, there. 

White Rose ! to him who gathers thee 
The Flower of Consolation be — 

Unfolding peace, and not despair. 
With sharpest thorns set round, 

Teach him how Life may wear 
Sharp griefs, and yet be crowned ! 

Blue Harebell ! that dost tremble 

To the weird breath of Sorrow, 
Be to the mourning one Faith's symbol; — 

Since thou dost borrow 

The same soft hue 
Her eyes have won with constant looking up; 
God filleth thine inverted cup 

With heaven's own blue; 
So shall His sweet assurance fill 
The heart bowed meekly to His will. 



174 Practical Recitations. 



The Heroes' Day. 

Through the long bending grass 

The white-robed maidens pass, 
With tender faces, and with footsteps soft and slow, 

Upon each lowly grave, 

Where sleeps the true and brave, 
Dropping red roses and wan lilies as they go. 

Flowers for the patriot band 

Who loved their native land : 
Sweet rosemary, and purple pansies, and pale pinks; 

Green leaves from budding trees 

Make sweet the passing breeze — 
Sweet as the elegy the grateful nation thinks. 

For who would not prolong 

With flowers and scent and song 
The memory of those who fell in freedom's fight ? 

From the sweet month of May, 

Then choose the fairest day, 
And crown it for the honored dead with all things bright. 

Then say: " O singing birds, 

Echo these tender words: 
While bosoms nobly throb, and women's eyes are wet, 

While roses bud and blow, 

While stars at evening glow, 
While daylight breaks for us, we never will forget. 

1 ' As long as men shall stand 

For home and native land, 

And while our starry flag flies o'er the true and free, 

Honor and love and truth 

Shall give immortal youth, 

And we'll remember you upon the land and sea. " 

Harper's Weekly. 



Decoration Bay. 175 

Decoration Hymn. 

William H. Randall. 

Soldiers ! who freely for our country's glory 
Upheld our flag on Southern hill and plain, 

Long may your deeds be told in grateful story, 
Ye have not lived in vain ! 

Brothers ! who fought for more than empty honor 

That all our land united might be free, 
May shine for evermore upon our banner 

Each star for liberty. 

Heroes ! who toiled through all the dusty marches, 
And life surrendered on those shot-plowed fields, 

To ye who fled where the blue sky o'erarches, 
Tribute a nation yields. 

Your spirits, watching from out heaven's dominions, 
Shall not see lost what ye so dearly bought; 

The shackles that once clogged the eagle's pinions 
Shall not again be wrought. 

And now with garlands decorate each dwelling 
Where all that earth could claim serenely sleeps; 

While love, like perfume from the flower upwelling 
Grateful remembrance keeps. 



Flowers foe the Brave. 

Celia Thaxter. 

Here bring your purple and gold, 
Glory of color and scent ! 

Scarlet of tulips bold, 

Buds blue as the firmament. 



176 Practical Recitations. 

Hushed is the sound of the fife 
And the bugle piping clear: 

The vivid and delicate life 
In the soul of the youthful year. 

We bring to the quiet dead, 
With a gentle and tempered grief; 

O'er the mounds so mute we shed 
The beauty of blossoms and leaf. 

The flashing swords that were drawn 
No rust shall their fame destroy ! 

Boughs rosy as rifts of dawn, 

Like the blush on the cheek of joy. 

Kich fires of the gardens and meads, 
We kindle these hearts above. 

What splendor shall match their deeds; 
What sweetness can match our love ? 



Memorial Day. 

Margaret Sidney. 
A little window-garden plot, 

Blooming in dusty street, 
Adown which poured the travel 

Of many weary feet; 
A cheery spot of brightness 

Blooming for all to see. 
Oh, that was Blossom's garden-bed, 

Who loved it tenderly. 

At morn, at noon, at even, 

She dealt out faithful care; 
And many buds and flowerets sweet 

Came out with fragrance rare. 
And now, this May-day morning, 

She stood in wealth of bloom 
That beautified and perfumed all 

The quaint, old-fashioned room. 



Decoration Day. 177 

When suddenly the door was thrown 

Ajar, and there stood Ray. 
" Give us your flowers, do, Blossom, do, 

For Decoration Day." 
She looked around with pretty flush 

Of hurt surprise: " Ah, no; 
You know not what you ask, if you 

Would wish to rob me so." 

" To rob you ?" Master Ray in scorn 

Flashed out, then turned away; 
1 ' The soldiers gave their all for you : 

You owe them flowers to-day." 
" I ' owe them flowers.' Ah, true, indeed ! 

Dear brother, please forgive. 
Those brave men died on battle-fields 

That we at home might live; 

And I not lay a flower upon 

Their graves in memory sweet ! 
Oh, selfish heart ! I have to mourn 

Ingratitude complete. 
Forgive me, Lord. They shall have all; 

Yes, glad I am to make 
. My buds and blossoms into wreaths 

For those dear patriots' sake." 

The May-day sun shone brilliantly; 

All Nature smiled to see 
The honors given to those who died 

In the cause of Liberty; 
But the sweetest gift from loving hands 

Was the bud, and flower, and spray, 
From the little child who gave her all 

On that Memorial Day. 



12 



THANKSGIVING. 



Thanksgiving Day. 

It was not until the late civil war that this day be- 
came in any sense a National one. Until that time its 
observance was confined almost exclusively to New Eng- 
land. But the proclamation of President Johnson, Nov. 
2, 1865, appointing a day for national thanksgiving, was 
indorsed by similar proclamations from the governors of 
all the States not of the late Confederacy, and since then 
the festival has steadily increased in popular favor, 
though many Southern States have been slow in its ob- 
servance. Now that its appointment comes from a Dem- 
ocratic President, — the first one ever issued from such a 
source, — it is probable that it will be more generally re- 
garded than ever before in our history. And this is one 
of the good signs of the times. It is well that one day 
of the year be given to the reunion of families, to the 
gathering together of scattered friends, and to rejoicing 
over the bounties of Providence. — The Advance. 



Thanksgiving among the Greeks. 

The Greeks held the grandest feast of all the year in 
honor of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest ; and the 
Romans, who borrowed most of their customs from the 
Grecians, also held a grand celebration in honor of the 
same goddess, whose name they changed to Ceres. They 



Thanksgiving. 179 



went in long processions to the fields, where they en- 
gaged in rustic sports, and crowned all of their house- 
hold gods with flowers. Both of these feasts were held 
in September. 



Thanksgiving among the Jews. 

Theee thousand years ago witnessed the Jewish Feast 
of Tabernacles, with its magnificent rituals, melodious 
choirs, and picturesque festivities. For eight days the 
people ceased their work, to "eat, drink, and be merry. " 
During the time millions gathered in and around Jeru- 
salem, for several days, living in booths formed of the 
branches of the olive, pine, myrtle, and palm, and deco- 
rated with fruits and flowers. Grand public pageants 
were held, and in addition to these every household had 
its worship, its sacrifice, and its banquet. 



The First English Thanksgiving in New York. 

But the Dutch went, and the English came — and they 
came to stay. On the possession of JSTew Netherland by 
the English, Edmund Andros being Governor, the Coun- 
cil sitting on June 7, 1675, ordered : 

"That Wednesday ye 23d of this Instant month, be 
appointed throughout ye government a day of Thanks- 
giving and Prayers to Almighty God for all His Past 
Deliverances and Blessings and Present Mercies to us, 
and to Pray ye continuance and Encrease thereof." 



180 Practical Recitations. 



How the Pilgrims gave Thanks. 

The Pilgrim Fathers, after ten months of sickness 
and suffering, gathered in their first harvest, which con- 
sisted of twenty acres of corn, and six of barley and peas 
— enough to keep them supplied with food for the coming 
year. For this they devoutly thanked God, and made 
preparations for a feast. Hunters were sent out to pro- 
cure the thanksgiving dinner, and returned with water- 
fowl, wild turkey, and venison. Then the feast was 
prepared, and Massasoit and ninety of his warriors were 
present. On the following year there was such a long 
drought that the corn and barley were stunted, and fam- 
ine seemed to stare them in the face. A day of fasting 
and prayer was appointed, and for nine hours the people 
prayed unceasingly. At evening the sun set in clouds, 
a breeze sprang up, and in the morning the rain was 
pouring down. The crops revived, and there was a boun- 
teous harvest. For this a day of thanksgiving was or- 
dered by Governor Bradford. 

The history of this first thanksgiving is recorded as 
follows: 

" Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four 
men out a-f owling that we might, after a special manner, 
rejoice together after we had the fruit of our labor. 
They four, in one day, killed as much fowl as, with a 
little help beside, served the company almost a week. 
At that time, among other recreations, we exercised our 
arms, many of the Indians coming among us, and among 
the rest, their greatest king, Massasoit, with some ninety 
men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, 
and they went out and killed five deer, which they 
brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor 
and upon the captain and others. And although it be 



Thanksgiving. 181 



not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet 
by the goodness of God we are so far from want that we 
often wish you partakers of our plenty." 



The First National Thanksgiving. 

The immediate occasion of the first thanksgiving was 
the surrender of General Burgoyne to General Gates, in 
the fall of 1777. Thursday, the 18th of December, was 
designated, and, in compliance with the order of Congress, 
the army at Valley Forge duly observed the day — the 
army that had tracked its way in blood. It was ordered 
by the Continental Congress. 



Washington's Proclamation. 

Washington, as President of the United States, is- 
sued his first proclamation for the observance of a day 
of thanksgiving at the city of New York on the 3d of 
October, 1789, setting apart Thursday, the 26th day of 
November of that year, " to be devoted by the people of 
these States to the service of that great and glorious 
Being who is the beneficent Author of all the good that 
was, that is, or that will be," etc. His second procla- 
mation, dated at the city of Philadelphia, January 1, 
1795, designated Thursday, November 26, as a day to be 
observed for a general thanksgiving by the people of 
the United States. 

Governor John Jay, of New York, thought so well of 
Thanksgiving Day, that he determined to have one of 
his own, and accordingly designated Thursday, Novem- 
ber 26, 1795. 



182 Practical Recitations. 

The First Boston Thanksgiving— July, 1630. 

[For Concert and Solo Recitation.'] 

Hezekiah Butterworth. 

JSolo. " Praise ye the Lord !" The psalm to-day 
That rises on our ears 
Eolls from the hills of Boston Bay 
Through five times fifty years — 
When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept 

Out to the open main, 
And through the widening waters swept 
In April sun and rain, 
Concert. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 
The leader shouted, "pray; ' 
And prayer arose from all the ships, 
As fadeth Yarmouth Bay. 

Solo. They passed the Scilly Isles that day, 
And May days came, and June, 
And thrice upon the ocean lay 

The full orb of the moon. 
And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay, 

Ere England sunk from view, 
While yet the rippling Solent lay 
In April skies of blue, 
Concert. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 
Each morn was shouted, "pray;" 
And prayer arose from all the ships, 
As first in Yarmouth Bay. 

Solo. Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas, 

Through Maytime morns and June, 
Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals, 

Low, 'neath the summer moon; 
And as Cape Ann arose to view, 

And Norman's Woe they passed, 
The wood-doves came the white mist through 

And circled round each mast. 



Thanksgiving. 183 



Concert. " Pray to the Lord with fervent lips/' 
Then called the leader, " pray;" 
And prayer arose from all the ships, 
As first in Yarmouth Bay. 

Solo. The white wings folded, anchors down, 
The sea-worn fleet in line; 
Fair rose the hills where Boston town 

Should rise from clonds of pine; 
Fair was the harbor, summit- walled, 
And placid lay the sea. 
" Praise ye the Lord," the leader called; 
" Praise ye the Lord," spake he. 
Concert. ' l Give thanks to God with fervent lips, 
Give thanks to God to-day." 
The anthem rose from all the ships, 
Safe moored in Boston Bay. 

Solo. That psalm our fathers sung we sing, 
That psalm of peace and wars, 
While o'er our heads unfolds its wing, 

The flag of forty stars ; 
And while the nation finds a tongue 

For nobler gifts to pray, 
'Twill ever sing the song they sung 
That first Thanksgiving Day: 
Concert. " Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, 
Praise ye the Lord to-day." 
So rose the song from all the ships, 
Safe moored in Boston Bay. 

Concert. Ho ! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide, 
Ho ! ships of Boston Bay, 
Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide 
To this Thanksgiving Day ! 

We pray to God with fervent lips, 

We praise the Lord to-day, 
As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships, 
But psalms from Boston Bay. 



184 Practical Recitations. 



Thanksgiving for his House. 

Robert Herrick (1591-1674). 

Lord, thou hast given me a cell 

Wherein to dwell, 
A little house whose humble roof 

Is weather-proof; 
Under the sparres of which I lie 

Both soft and dry; 
Where thou, my chamber for to ward, 

Hast set a guard 
Of harmless thoughts to watch and keep 

Me, while I sleep. 
Low is my porch, as is my fate, 

Both void of state; 
And yet the threshold of my doore 

Is worn by th' poore, 
Who hither come, and freely get 

Good words, or meat. 

'Tis thou that crownest my glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirthe, 
And givest me wassaile bowls to drink, 

Spiced to the brink. 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land 
And givest me for my bushel sown 

Twice ten for one; 
Thou makest my teeming hen to lay 

Her egg each day. 
All these, and better, thou dost send 

Me, to this end, 
That I should render, for my part, 

A thankful heart; 
Which, fired with incense, I resigne 

As wholly Thine: 
But the acceptance, that must be, 

Lord, by Thee. 



Thanksgiving. 185 



Thanksgiving. 

William D. Howells. 

Lord, for the erring thought 
Not into evil wrought ! 
Lord, for the wicked will 
Betrayed and baffled still ! 
For the heart from itself kept, 
Our thanksgiving accept. 
For ignorant hopes that were 
Broken to our blind prayer; 
For pain, death, sorrow, sent 
Unto our chastisement; 
For all loss of seeming good, 
Quicken our gratitude. 

Harper's Magazine. 



Thanksgiving Ode. 

John G. Whittier. 

Once more the liberal year laughs out 
O'er richer stores than gems or gold; 

Once more with harvest -song and shout 
Is nature's bloodless triumph told. 

Our common mother rests and sings, 
Like Kuth, among her garnered sheaves; 

Her lap is full of goodly things, 
Her brow is bright with autumn leaves. 

O favors every year made new ! 

O gifts with rain and sunshine sent ! 
The bounty overruns our due; 

The fullness shames our discontent. 

We shut our eyes, and flowers bloom on; 

We murmur, but the corn-ears fill; 
We choose the shadow, but the sun 

That casts it shines behind us still. 



186 Practical Recitations. 



God gives us with our rugged soil 
The power to make it Eden-fair, 

And richer fruits to crown our toil 
Than summer- wedded islands bear. 

Who murmurs at his lot to-day ? 

Who scorns his native fruit and bloom ? 
Or sighs for dainties far away, 

Beside the bounteous board of home ? 

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm 
Can change a rocky soil to gold; 

That brave and generous lives can warm 
A clime with Northern ices cold. 

And let these altars, wreathed with flowers 
And piled with fruits, awake again 

Thanksgivings for the golden hours, 
The early and the latter rain ! 



Elsie's Thanksgiving, 

Margaret E. Sangster. 

Dolly, it's almost Thanksgiving; do you know what that 

means, my dear ? 
No ? Well, I couldn't expect it ; you haven't been with us a year, 
And you came with my auntie from Paris, far over the wide 

blue sea, 
And you'll keep your first Thanksgiving, my beautiful Dolly, 

with me. 

I'll tell you about it, my darling, for grandma's explained it all, 
So that I understand why Thanksgiving always comes late in 

the fall, 
When the nuts and the apples are gathered, and the work in 

the field is done, 
And the fields, all reaped and silent, are asleep in the autumn 

sum 



Thanks giving. 187 



It is then that we praise Our Father who sends the rain and 
the dew, 

Whose wonderful loving-kindness is every morning new; 

Unless we'd be heathen, Dolly, or worse, we must sing and 
P^y, 

And think about good things, Dolly, when we keep Thanks- 
giving Day. 

But I like it very much better when from church we all go 

home, 
And the married brothers and sisters and the troops of cousins 

come, 
And we're ever so long at the table, and dance and shout and 

Play, 
In the merry evening, Dolly, that ends Thanksgiving day. 



Thanksgivings of Old. 

E. A. Smuller. 

Oh, the glorious Thanksgivings 

Of the days that are no more ! 
How, with each recurring season, 

Wakes their mem'ry o'er and o'er! 
When the hearts of men were simpler, 

And the needs of life were less, 
And its mercies were not reckoned 

By the measure of excess. 

Heaven send the glad Thanksgiving 

Of that older, simpler time ! 
Tarry with us, not in fancy, 

Not in retrospective rhyme; 
But in true and living earnest 

May the spirit of that day, 
Artless, plain, and unpretending, 

Once again resume its sway ! 



CHEISTMAS. 



The Day of Days. 

JSolo. 'Twas eighteen hundred years ago, 
Not in a region of ice and snow, 
But far in the land of the early morn, 
The oldest of lands, our Christ was born. 

Concert. Of all the joy-days under the sun, 
Of all the holidays, there's but one 
That comes to the heart, and clings to the home — 
Christmas has come ! 

Solo. Still through the length of the multiplied years, 
Sunshine of pleasure, and rainfall of tears, 
Changes and growth in wonderful ways, 
Christmas remains the great day of days. 

Concert. The day of the hope that casteth out fear, 
The day of all days that brings good cheer 
In the country's peace and the city's hum — 
Christmas has come ! 

Solo. Now in the uttermost ends of the earth 

The story is told of the Christ-child's birth; 
And millions, wherever the sun's rays fall, 
Are kin in the hope that is dear to all. 

Conceit. All over the lands and far out on the seas 
Is a lifting of voices and bowing of knees; 
And alike to us all, if we rest or roam, 

Christmas has come ! 



Christmas. 189 



Solo. Wherever the blessings of mortals increase, 

With customs and laws that give joy and peace; 
Where science and art yield comfort and bliss, 
All over the world there is no day like this. 

Concert. Of all the joy-days under the sun, 
Of all the holidays, there's but one 
That touches the heart and clings to the home — 
Christmas has come ! 



Christmas in Olden Time. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill; 
But, let it whistle as it will, 
We'll keep our Christmas merry still. 
Each age has deemed the new-born year 
The fittest time for festal cheer. 

And well our Christmas sires of old 
Loved, when the year its course had rolled 
And brought blithe Christmas back again 
With all its hospitable train, 
With social and religious rite 
To honor all the holy night. 
On Christmas-eve the bells were rung; 
On Christmas-eve the mass was sung. 
Then opened wide the Baron's hall 
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; 
Power laid his rod of rule aside, 
And Ceremony doffed her pride. 
All hailed with uncontrolled delight 
And general voice the happy night, 
That to the cottage, as the crown, 
Brought tidings of -salvation down. 

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 
Went roaring up the chimney wide; 



190 Practical Recitations. 

The huge hall-table's oaken face, 
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, 
Bore then upon its massive board 
No mark to part the squire and lord. 

Then came the merry maskers in 
And carols roared with blithesome din. 
If unmelodious was the song, 
It was a hearty note and strong. 
England was merry England when 
Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale; 
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; 
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
The poor man's heart through half the year. 



A Christmas Thought about Dickens. 

Bertha S. Scranton. 

Westminster is gray at midnight, 

With shadows from wall to wall; 
They have noiseless feet, these shadows, 

And make no sound as they fall. 
But I ween they will creep together, 

A goodly band to-night, 
Over a silent marble name, 

In the Christmas-eve twilight. 

All the tiny dear child-people 

We hold in our hearts to-day, 
Who will live when that same marble 

Has crumbled to dust away. 
" Little Em'ly's" ghost that haunteth 

The minster's shadowy aisle, 
With the grave, sweet face of Agnes, 

And the child- wife Dora's smile. 



Christmas. 191 



Then will come, I ween, with the others, 

Poor Smike with his patient air, 
And the seven little Ken wigs, 

With their braided tails of hair. 
And Jenny Wren, I can promise, 

Will surely be there again, 
With her slanting rows of children, 

Crying, " Who is this in pain ?" 

Little Nell will wake and listen, 

When the white, white world is still 
And the great chimes through the midnight 

From the belfry tower thrill. 
The little Cratchits will hearken 

And wait till the goose is done, 
And the voice of tiny Tim will cry, 

" God bless us every one !" 

But ah ! for the living mourners 

On either side of the sea, 
For whom no more the brave hand writes, 

The heart beats cheerily. 
And ah ! for the saddened chambers, 

Where his watchers ever wait, 
They unto whom life yields but pain, 

And who keep its vigil late. 

Westminster is gray with shadows, 

But his children never die ! 
Through all the Christmas times to come 

Will his carol notes ring high. 
The dreamer has but awakened, 

And the master's work is done, 
But the bells on Time's great steeple 

King, " God bless us every one !" 



192 Practical Recitations. 



[In the following selection the numbered stanzas can be given in concert 
with a musical accompaniment.] 

The Star in the West. 

QUEBEC-1635. 

Hezekiah Butterworth. 

'Tis the fortress of St. Louis, 

The Church of Kecoverance, 
And hang o'er the crystal crosses 

The silver lilies of France. 
In the fortress a knight lies dying, 

In the church are priests at prayer, 
And the bell of the Angelus sweetly 

Throbs out on the crimsoned air. 

The noblest knight is dying 

That ever served a king, 
And he looks from the fortress window 

As the bells of the Angelus ring. 
Old scenes come back to his vision, 

Again his ship's canvases swell 
In the harbor of gray St. Malo, 

In the haven of fair Eochelle. 
He sees the emparadised ocean 

That he dared when his years were young, 
The lagoons where his lateen-sail drifted 

As the Southern Cross over it hung; 
Acadie, the Kichelieu's waters, 

The lakes through the midlands that rolled, 
And the cross that he planted wherever 

He lifted the lilies of gold. 
He lists to the Angelus ringing, 

He folds his white hands on his breast, 
And far o'er the clouded forests 

A star verges low in the West ! 



Christmas. 193 



i. 

' ' Star on the bosom of the West, 

Chime on, O bell, chime on, bell ! 
To-night with visions I am blest, 
And filled with light ineffable ! 
No angels sing in crystal air, 

No clouds 'neath seraphs' footsteps glow, 
No feet of seers o'er mountains fair 
A portent follows far; but lo ! 
A star is glowing in the West, 

The world shall follow it from far — 

Chime on, Christmas bells, chime on ! 

Shine on, shine on, O Western Star ! 

ii. 
" In yonder church that storms have iced — 
I founded it upon this rock — 
I've daily kissed the feet of Christ, 
In worship with my little flock. 
But I am dying — I depart, 

Like Simeon old my glad feet go, 
A star is shining in my heart. 
Such as the Magi saw; and lo ! 
A star is shining in the West, 

The world shall hail it from afar ! 
Chime on, O Christmas bells, chime on ! 
Shine on, shine on, O Western Star ! 

in. 

" Beside the Fleur de Lis of France, 
The faith I've planted in the North, 
Ye messengers of Heaven, advance; 

Ye mysteries of the Cross, shine forth ! 
I know the value of the earth, 

I've learned its lessons; it is done; 
One soul alone outweighs in worth 
The fairest kingdom of the sun. 
13 



194 Practical Recitations. 

Star on the bosom of the West, 
My dim eyes follow thee afar. 

Chime on, chime on, O Christmas bells ! 
Shine on, shine on, O golden Star ! 

IV. 

" What rapture ! hear the sweet choirs sing, 
While death's cold shadows o'er me fall, 
Beneath the lilies of my King — 

Go, light the lamps in yonder hall. 
Mine eyes have seen the Christ Star glow 
Above the New World's temple gates. 
Go forth, celestial heralds, go ! 
Earth's fairest empire thee awaits ! 
Star on the bosom of the West, 

What feet shall follow thee from far ? 
Chime on, O Christmas bells, chime on ! 
Shine on forever, golden Star !" 

'Twas Christmas morn; the sun arose 

'Mid clouds o'er the St. Lawrence broad, 
And fell a sprinkling of the snows 

As from the uplifted hand of God. 
Dead in the fortress lay the knight, 

His white hands crossed upon his breast, 
Dead, he whose clear prophetic sight 

Beheld the Christ Star in the West. 
That morning, 'mid the turrets white, 

The low flags told the empire's last, 
They hung the lilies o'er the knight, 

And by the lilies set the cross. 

Long, on Quebec, immortal heights, 

Has Champlain slept, the knight of God; 
The Western Star shines on, and lights 

The growing empire, fair and broad. 
And though are gone the knights of France, 

Still lives the spirit of the North; 
The heralds of the Star advance, 

And Truth's eternal light shines forth. 



Christmas. 195 



The Little Mud-Sparrows. 

(A Jewish Legend.) 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 

I like that old sweet legend 

Not found in Holy Writ, 
And wish that John or Matthew 

Had made Bible out of it. 

But though it is not Gospel, 

There is no law to hold 
The heart from growing better 

That hears the story told: 

How the little Jewish children 

Upon a summer day 
Went down across the meadows 

With the Child Christ to play, 

And in the gold-green valley 
Where low the reed-grass lay, 

They made them mock mud-sparrows 
Out of the meadow-clay. 

So, when these all were fashioned 
And ranged in flocks about, 

" Now," said the little Jesus, 
" Well let the birds fly out." 

Then all the happy children 
Did call, and coax, and cry — 

Each to his own mud-sparrow: 
u Fly, as I bid you— fly !" 

But earthen were the sparrows, 
And earth they did remain, 

Though loud the Jewish children 
Cried out and cried again — 



196 Practical Recitations. 

Except the one bird only 
The little Lord Christ made. 

The earth that owned Him Master, 
— His earth heard and obeyed. 

Softly He leaned and whispered: 
" Fly up to heaven ! fly !" 

And swift His little sparrow 
Went soaring to the sky. 

And silent all the children 
Stood awe-struck looking on, 

Till deep into the heavens 
The bird of earth had gone. 

I like to think for playmate 
We have the Lord Christ still, 

And that still above our weakness, 
He works His mighty will; 

That all our little playthings 
Of earthen hopes and joys 

Shall be by His commandment 
Changed into heavenly toys. 

Our souls are like the sparrows 

Imprisoned in the clay — 
Bless Him who came to give them wings, 

Upon a Christmas Day ! 



Christmas. 197 



A Christmas Question. 

Kev. Minot J. Savage. 

[For concert recitation. In order to avoid monotony in the repetition of the 
question, the first line of the first stanza can be read with direct falling slides; 
of the second, with direct rising slides; of the third, with emphasis on the 
first word; of the fourth, with a perfect monotone; of the fifth, with empha- 
sis on the second word; of the sixth, with direct rising slides.] 

I. 

When will He come ? 
A captive nation dwell upon 
The river-banks of Babylon; 

What is the word they speak ? 
The prophet's eye looks down the years 
And kindles as the sight appears — 
4 ' Messiah ! him ye seek ! 
Lo ! the Lord's anointed comes ! and then 
Shall dwell the heavenly kingdom among men I" 

ii. 

When will He come ? 
The Christian answers, ' ' Long ago 
The King was born in manger low. 

Him wicked men have slain, 
And now we wait with longing eye, 
And fix our look upon the sky; 
For He will come again, 
We pray and watch since He has gone away; 
For when He comes He'll bring the perfect day." 

in. 

When will He come ? 
"Lo, here ! Lo, there!" the foolish shout, 
And think that God will come without. 

But ever has it been, 
In spite of fabled tales that tell 



198 Practical Recitations. 

Of magic and of miracle, 
That He has come within. 
Only through man, and man alone, 
Does God bnild up his righteous throne. 

IV. 

When will He come ? 
When iron first was hammered out; 
When far shores heard the seaman's shout; 

When letters first were known; 
When separate tribes to nations grew; 
When men their brotherhood first knew; 
When law first reached the throne: 
Each separate upward step that. man has trod 
Has been a coming of the living God. 

v. 

When will He come ? 
While you are looking far away, 
His tireless feet are nigh to-day; 

Each true word is His voice. 
All honest work, all noble trust, 
Each deed that lifts man from the dust, 
Each pure and manly choice, 
Each upward stair man's toil-worn feet do climb, 
Is just another birth of God sublime. 

VI. 

When will He come ? 
He'll come to-morrow if you will; 
But cease your idle sitting still. 

Yes, He will come to-day. 
He will not come in clouds; but through 
Your doing all that you can do 
To help the right alway. 
Do honest work, and to the truth be true, 
And God already has appeared in you. 



Christmas. 199 



Wings. 

Dinah Mulock Craik. 

"Mother, oh, make me a pair of wings, 
Like the Christ-child's adorning; 
Blue as the sky, with a gold star-eye — 
I'll wear them on Christmas morning." 

The mother worked with a careless heart 

All through that merry morning; 
Happy and blind, nor saw behind 

The shadow that gives no warning. 

He struck — and over the little face 

A sudden change came creeping; 
Twelve struggling hours against Death's fierce powers, 

And then — he has left her sleeping. 

(Strange sleep that no mother's kiss can wake ! 

Lay her pretty wings beside her; 
Strew white flowers sweet on her hands and feet, 

And under the white snow hide her. 

For the Christ -child called her out of her play, 

And, thus our earth-life scorning, 
She went away. What, dead, we say ? 

She was born that Christmas morning. 

Wide Awake. 



200 Practical Recitations. 

The Nativity. 

Louisa Parsons Hopkins. 

From Nazareth to Bethlehem, 
Their holy journey leading them 
By silver-towered Jerusalem. 

Beneath the palm-tree's tossing plume, 

Amid the harvest's rich perfume, 

No house could give them rest or room. 

So entering at the wayside cave, 
Where mountain-rills the limestone lave, 
The child was born a world to save. 

They laid him in the manger white; 
The lowing oxen saw the sight, 
And wondered at the dazzling light. 

The mother's heart in sacred bliss 

Could dream no sweeter heaven than this, 

To greet her babe with mother's kiss. 

And bending down with sacred awe, 
For a lost world the angels saw 
Love, the fulfilling of the law. 



A Christmas day, to be perfect, should be clear and 
cold, with holly branches in berry, a blazing fire, a din- 
ner with mince-pies, and games and forfeits in the even- 
ing. You cannot have it in perfection if you are very 
fine and fashionable. A Christmas evening should, if 
possible, finish with music. It carries off the excite- 
ment without abruptness, and sheds a repose over the 
conclusion of enjoyment. — Leigh Hunt. 



Christmas. 201 



Christmas Bells. 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

[For musical accompaniment ] 

I heard the bells on Christmas-day 
Their old, familiar carols play, 

And wild and sweet 

The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 

Had rolled along 

The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good- will to men ! 

Till, ringing, swinging on its way, 
The world revolved from night to clay 

A voice, a chime, 

A chant sublime 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 
The cannon thundered in the South 

And with the sound 

The carols drowned 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent, 

And made forlorn 

The households born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And in despair I bowed my head; 
" There is no peace on earth," I said; 
i ' For hate is strong 
And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good- will to men !" 



202 Practical Recitations. 

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep; 
" God is not dead; nor doth he sleep ! 

The Wrong shall fail, 

The Bight prevail, 
With peace on earth, good-will to men !" 



Christmas Roses. 

May Kiley Smith. 

I gave into a brown and tired hand 

A stem of roses, sweet and creamy- white. 

I know the bells rang merry tunes that night, 

For it was Christmas time throughout the land, 

And all the skies were hung with lanterns bright. 

The brown hand held my roses gracelessly; 

They seemed more. white within their dusky vase; 

A scarlet wave suffused the woman's face. 
" My hands so seldom hold a flower, 1 ' said she, 
" I think the lovely things feel out of place." 

O tired hands that are unused to flowers; 

O feet that tread on nettles all the way ! 

God grant His peace may fold you round to-day, 

And cling in fragrance when these Christmas hours, 

With all their mirthfulness, have passed away ! 



NEW-YEAR'S. 



Address to the New Year. 

Dinah Mulock Craik. 

good New Year ! we clasp 

This warm, shut hand of thine, 
Loosing forever, with half sigh, half grasp, 

That which from ours falls like dead fingers' twine. 
Ay, whether fierce its grasp 
Has been, or gentle, having been, we know 
That it was blessed : let the old year go. 

Friend, come thou like a friend; 

And, whether bright thy face, 
Or dim with clouds we cannot comprehend, 

We'll hold our patient hands, each in his place, 
And trust thee to the end, 
Knowing thou leadest onwards to those spheres 
Where there are neither days nor months nor years. 



A New Year. 

Margaret E. Sangster. 

Why do we greet thee, blithe New Year ! 
What are thy pledges of mirth and cheer ? 
Comest, knight -errant, the wrong to right ? 
Comest to scatter our gloom with light ? 
Wherefore the thrill, the sparkle and shine, 
In heart and eyes at a word of thine ? 



204 Practical Recitations. 

The old was buoyant, the old was true, 
The old was brave when the old was new. 
He crowned us often with grace and gift; 
His sternest skies had a deep blue rift. 
Straight and swift, when his hand unclasped, 
With welcome and joyance thine we grasped. 
O tell us, Year — we are fain to know — 
What is thy charm that we hail thee so ? 

Dost promise much that is fair and sweet — 
The wind's low stir in the rippling wheat, 
The waves' soft plash on the sandy floor, 
The bloom of roses from shore to shore, 
Glance of wings from the bowery nest, 
Music and perfume from east to west, 
Frosts to glitter in jeweled rime, 
Blush of sunrise at morning's prime, 
Stars above us their watch to keep, 
And rain and dew, though we wake or sleep ? 

Once more a voice, and I hear it call 
Like a bugle-note from a mountain wall; 
The pines uplift it with mighty sound, 
The billows bear it the green earth round; 
A voice that rolls in a jubilant song, 
A conqueror's ring in its echo strong; 
Through the ether clear, from the solemn sky 
The New Year beckons, and makes reply: 

"I bring you, friends, what the years have brought 
Since ever men toiled, aspired, or thought — 
Days for labor, and nights for rest; 
And I bring you love, a heaven-born guest; 
Space to work in, and work to do, 
And faith in that which is pure and true. 
Hold me in honor and greet me dear, 
And sooth you'll find me a Happy Year." 

Harpefs Bazar. 



New- Year's. 205 



A Wish. 

Margaret Veley. 
If I could find the Little Year, 
The Happy Year, the glad New Year— 
If I could find him setting forth 
To seek the ancient track — 
I'd bring him here, the Little Year, 
Like a peddler with his pack. 

And all of golden brightness, 

And nothing dull or black, 

And all that heart could fancy, 

And all that life could lack, 

Should be your share of the peddler's ware, 

When he undid his pack. 

The best from out his treasure 

A smile of yours would coax, 

And then we'd speed him on his way, 

At midnight's failing strokes; 

And bid him hurry round the world, 

And serve the other folks ! 



Another Year. 

Nathaniel P. Willis. 

Sweetly hath passed the year; the seasons came 
Duly as they were wont, the gentle spring, 
And the delicious summer, and the cool, 
Rich autumn, with the nodding of the grain, 
And winter, like an old and hoary man, 
Frosty and stiff — and so are chronicled. 

We have read gladness in the new green leaf, 
And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk 
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade 
Sunk to the noontide slumber; we have plucked 
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree, 
And girded to our pleasant wanderings. 



206 Practical Recitations. 

When the cool winds came freshly from the hills, 
And when the tinting of the autumn leaves 
Had faded from its glory, we have sat 
By the good fires of winter, and rejoiced 
Over the fullness of the gathered sheaf. 



The Child and the Yeab. 

Celia Thaxter. 
Said the child to the youthful year: 
' ' What hast thou in store for me, 

giver of beautiful gifts ! what cheer, 
What joy dost thou bring with thee ?" 

4 ' My seasons four shall bring 

Their treasures: the winter's snows, 
The autumn's store, and the flowers of spring, 
And the summer's perfect rose. 

" All these and more shall be thine, 
Dear child, — but the last and best 
Thyself must earn by a strife divine, 
If thou wouldst be truly blest. 

" Wouldst know this last, best gift? 
'Tis a conscience clear and bright, 
A peace of mind which the soul can lift 
To an infinite delight. 

" Truth, patience, courage, and love, 
If thou unto me canst bring, 

1 will set thee all earth's ills above, 
O child ! and crown thee a king !" 



We are bound, by every rule of justice and equity, to 
give the New Year credit for being a good one until he 
proves himself unworthy the confidence we repose in 
him. — Charles Dickers. 



THE SEASONS. 



A Song of Waking. 
Katharine Lee Bates. 

The maple buds are red, are red, 

The robin's call is sweet; 
The blue sky floats above thy head, 

The violets kiss thy feet. 
The sun paints emeralds on the spray 

And sapphires on the lake ; 
A million wings unfold to-day, 

A million flowers awake. 

Their starry cups the cowslips lift 

To catch the golden light, 
And like a spirit fresh from shrift 

The cherry tree is white. 
The innocent looks up with eyes 

That know no deeper shade 
Than falls from wings of butterflies 

Too fair to make afraid. 

With long, green raiment blown and wet 

The willows, hand in hand, 
Lean low to teach the rivulet 

What trees may understand 
Of murmurous tune and idle dance, 

With broken rhymes whose flow 
A poet's ear shall catch, perchance, 

A score of miles below. 

Across the sky to fairy realm 
There sails a cloud-born ship: 

A wind sprite standeth at the helm, 
With laughter on his lip ; 



208 Practical Recitations. 

The melting masts are tipped with gold, 
The 'broidered pennons stream; 

The vessel beareth in her hold 
The lading of a dream. 

It is the hour to rend thy chains, 

The blossom time of souls; 
Yield all the rest to cares and pains, 

To-day delight controls. 
Gird on thy glory and thy pride, 

For growth is of the sun; 
Expand thy wings whate'er betide, 

The Summer is begun. 



" Early Spring." 

Alfred Tennyson. 

i. 
Once more the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new, 
And domes the red-plowed hills 

With loving blue; 
The blackbirds have their wills, 

The throstles too. 

ii. 

Opens a door in Heaven 

From skies of glass; 
A Jacob's-ladder falls 

On greening grass, 
And o'er the mountain-walls 

Young angels pass. 

in. 
Before them fleets the shower, 

And burst the buds, 
And shine the level lands, 



The Seasons, 209 



And flash the floods; 
The stars are from their hands 
Flung through the woods. 

IV. 

O follow, leaping blood, 

The season's lure ! 
O heart, look down and up, 

Serene, secure, 
Warm as the crocus-cup, 

Like snow-drops, pure ! 

v. 

For now the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new, 
And thaws the cold and fills 

The flower with dew; 
The blackbirds have their wills, 

The poets too. 

Youth's Companion. 



May. 



May comes laughing, crowned with daffodils, 
Her dress embroidered with blue violets, 
So gracious and so sweet she scarcely lets 

A thought return of all the winter's ills. 

The orchards with enchanting wealth she fills; 
In the green marshes golden cowslip sets, 
And all the waking woodland spaces frets 

"With shy anemones. But ah, she wills 

At times to frown in sudden wayward mood; 
The violets shiver clinging to the ground, 

She's cold and blustering where once she wooed, 
And oftentimes in petulant tears is found; 

But like sweet women, who sometimes are cross, 

Her smiles come back the sweeter for their loss. 

Good Cheer. 
14 



210 Practical Recitations. 

June. 

She sits all day plaiting a wild-rose wreath, 
This daughter of the Sun, come from afar. 
Sweeter is she than her bright sisters are 

Who follow her across the flowery heath. 

A daisy is her sign, and underneath 

The meadow's foamy flow the clovers wear 
Their uniforms of white and red, and bear 

Their cups of sweet to scent their mistress' breath. 

What dawns are thine, dear, delicious June, 
When at the drawing of thy curtain's fold 

The birds awake and sing a marvelous tune 
To the young Day that comes in rose and gold ! 

What twilights when the gray dusk hides thy face 

That thou mayst come with more enchanting grace ! 

Travelers" Record. 



Golden-rod. 

Lucy Larcom. 

Midsummer music in the grass — 

The cricket and the grasshopper; 
White daisies and red clover pass; 

The caterpillar trails her fur 
After the languid butterfly; 

But green and spring-like is the sod 
Where autumn's earliest lamps I spy — 

The tapers of the golden-rod. 

This flower is fuller of the sun 

Than any our pale North can show; 
It has the heart of August won, 

And scatters wide the warmth and glow 
Kindled at summer's mid-noon blaze, 

Where gentians of September bloom 
Along October's leaf -strewn ways, 

And through November's paths of gloom. 



The Seasons, 211 



As lavish of its golden light 

As sunshine's self, this blossom is; 
Its starry chandeliers burn bright 

All day; and have you noted this — 
A perfect sun in every flower, — 

Ten thousand thousand fairy suns, 
Raying from new disks hour by hour, 

As up the stalk the life-flash runs ? 

Because its myriad glimmering plumes 

Like a great army's stir and wave, 
Because its gold in billows blooms, 

The poor man's barren walks to lave; 
Because its sun-shaped blossoms show 

How souls receive the light of God, 
And unto earth give back that glow — 

I thank Him for the golden-rod. 



Indian Summer. 
John G. Whittier. 

From gold to gray 

Our mild sweet day 
Of Indian summer fades too soon; 

But tenderly 

Above the sea 
Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon. 

In its pale fire 
The village spire, 
Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance, 
The painted walls 
Wheron it falls, 
Transfigured stand in marble trance. 



212 Practical Recitations. 

September, 1815. 

William Wordsworth. 

While not a leaf seems faded, while the fields, 
With ripening harvests prodigally fair, 
In brightest sunshine bask, this nipping air, 

Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields 

His icy cimeter, a foretaste yields 

Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware, 
And whispers to the silent birds, ' ' Prepare 

Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields." 

For me, who, under kindlier laws, belong 
To Nature's tuneful choir, this rustling dry, 

Through the green leaves, and yon crystalline sky, 
Announce a season potent to renew, 

'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, 

And nobler cares than listless summer knew. 



October. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

Ay, thou art welcome, Heaven's delicious breath, 
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, 

And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 

Wind of the sunny South, oh ! still delay 
In the gay woods and in the golden air, 
Like to a good old age released from care, 

Journeying, in long serenity, away. 
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 

Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, 

And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, 
And music of kind voices ever nigh, 

And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass, 

Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 



The Seasons. 213 



Faded Leaves. 

Alice Cary. 

The hills are bright with maples yet; 

But down the level land 
The beech-leaves rustle in the wind 

As dry and brown as sand. 

The clouds in bars of rusty red 

Along the hilltops glow, 
And in the still sharp air the frost 

Is like a dream of snow. 

The berries of the brier rose 
Have lost their rounded pride, 

The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums 
Are drooping heavy-eyed. 

The cricket grows more friendly now, 

The dormouse sly and wise, 
Hiding away in disgrace 

Of nature from men's eyes. 

The pigeons in black and wavering lines 
Are swinging toward the sun; 

And all the wide and withered fields 
Proclaim the summer done. 

His store of nuts and acorns now 

The squirrel hastes to gain, 
And sets his house in order for 

The winter's dreary reign. 

'Tis time to light the evening fire, 

To read good books, to sing 
The low and lovely songs that breathe 

Of the eternal spring. 



214 Practical Recitations. 



November. 

Hartley Coleridge. 

The mellow year is hasting to its close; 

The little birds have almost sung their last; 

Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast, 
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; 
The patient beauty of the scentless rose 

Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed 

Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past 
And makes a little summer where it grows, 
In the chill sunbeam of the faint, brief day. 

The dusky waters shudder as they shine; 
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way 

Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks confine, 
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 
Wrap their old limbs with somber ivy-twine. 



Winter. 

Robert Southey. 

A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee, 
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as gray 

As the long moss upon the apple-tree; 

Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose, 
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way 
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. 

They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, 

Old Winter, seated in thy great armed chair, 
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth, 

Or circled by them as thy lips declare 
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, 
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, 

Pausing at times to rouse the moldering fire, 

Or taste the old October brown and bright. 



The Seasons. 215 



December. 

Louisa Parsons Hopkins. 

Blow, northern winds ! 
To brace my fibers, knit my cords, 
To gird my soul, to fire my words, 
To do my work — for 'tis the Lord's — 

To fashion minds. 

Come, tonic blasts ! 
Arouse my courage, stir my thought, 
Give nerve and strength that as I ought 
I give my strength to what is wrought 

While duty lasts. 

Glow, arctic light ! 
And let my heart with burnished steel 
That bright magnetic flame reveal 
Which kindles purpose, faith, and zeal 

For truth and right. 

Shine, winter skies ! 
That when each brave day's work is done 
I wait in peace from sun to sun, 
To meet unshamed, through victory won, 

Your starry eyes. 



Under these names, January, February, March, 
April, how much is hid that the eye cannot see ! Un- 
cover the months and interpret them. In a low and 
sweet way our Almanac began to speak as if he were a 
harp, and as if the spirit of the year like a gentle wind 
was breathing through it. — Henry Ward Beecher. 



216 Practical Recitations. 



January. 

Rosaline E. Jones. 

Who can love you, January ? 
You are gruff and ugly — very. 

How you roar ! 
And a sorry tale you utter, 
In a maniacal mutter, 

At my door. 

Then you sob and sigh and pine, 
In a mindless, minor whine, 

And again 
A wild, grewsome ditty slips 
From your frozen, rigid lips, 

Fierce as pain. 

Like some creature strung to hate, 
Wrestling with its cruel fate, 

Conquering 
Only as you flee apace, 
Glaring back with grim, wry face, 

Mimicking. 

Hush your savage minstrelsy 
To a mellower symphony, 

Soft and deep. 
Know you no mellifluous rune ? 
No low, lulling cradle croon, 

Wooing sleep ? 

No soft breath from slumbrous isles, 
Where eternal summer smiles 

Halcyon ? 
Beat your tattoo for your raids, 
And decamp for Hadean shades. 

Pray begone ! 



The Seasons. 217 



Frost Work. 

Mary E. Bradley. 

No fairies left ? You need not tell me so, 
For in the night upon my window pane 

Grew wondrous things that made me surely know 
The fairies are at their old tricks again. 

wonder working spirit ! if I could 

But learn of you the secret of the snow — 
How frost is given by the breath of God, 
And where the hidden water courses flow; 

And where begotten is the dew that strings 
Her lovely pearls upon the meanest weed, 

And what sweet animating influence brings 
The blossom splendid from the trivial seed; 

Could I but ride the south wind and the north, 
And fathom all the mysteries they hold, 

See how the lightning, leaping wildly forth, 
And how the turbulent thunder is controlled, 

1 would no more be fretted by the greed 
And selfishness of men; their puny spite, 

Nor any worldly loss or cross indeed, 
My lifted soul could evermore affright. 

And wherefore now ? The laughing fairy seems 
To mock at me the spangled window through; 

And I laugh also, waking from my dreams 
To take up daily loss and cross anew. 

But with a sense of things divinely planned, 
That makes me sure I need not fear disdain, 

From One who holds the thunder in his hand, 
Yet stoops to trace the frost work on the pane. 



FLOWERS. 



No Flowers. 

How bleak and drear the earth would seem 

Were there no flower faces 
To give the hills, the woods and fields 

Their pleasing charms and graces ! 
Could spring be spring without a flower 

To smile at April's weeping ? 
Would robins trill so gay a song, 

Or May day be worth keeping ? 

And only think how bare the hedge 

Would look without its posies ! — 
How queer 'twould be to have a June 

That did not smell like roses ! 
No dandelions on the sward 

For childhood's busy fingers; 
No morning-glories, drinking dew, 

While golden sunrise lingers ! 

No violets, with hoods of blue, 

To nod at mild spring's coming; 
No clover blossoms — would we hear 

The busy bees' soft humming ? 
And were there no forget-me-nots, 

No buttercups or daisies, 
The children would be lost for sports, 

The poet lost for phrases. 

No flowers, with their refining power 
No wafts from yon sweet heaven — 

No tokens of a love divine 
To erring mortals given ! 



Flowers. 219 



Ah, flowers your smiling faces prove 
The Source of all our pleasures 

Would not pronounce creation good 
Without thee, floral treasures ! 



Ferns. 



Ferns, beautiful ferns, 

By the side of the running waters, 
Lovely and sweet and fresh, 

As the fairest of earth-born daughters; 
Under the dreamy shade 

Of the forest's mighty branches, 
Curving their graceful shapes 

To the playful wind's advances. 

Ferns, delicate ferns, 

Neighbors of emerald mosses, 
Having no thought or care 

For worldly attainments or losses. 
Children of shadow serene, 

Fresh at the heart through the summer, 
Over the cool springs they lean, 

Where the sunbeam is rarely a comer. 

Ferns, feathery ferns, 

Delicate, slender and frail, 
Nursed by the streamlet, whose song 

Is music for hillside and vale. 
Purity, modesty, grace, 

Emblems of these to the mind, 
Loving the quietest place 

That ever a sunbeam will find. 



220 Practical Recitations. 



Sweet Peas. 

Oh, what is the use of such pretty wings 

If one never, never can fly ? 
Pink and fine as the clouds that shine 

In the delicate morning sky. 
With a perfume sweet as the lilies keep 
Down in their vases so white and deep. 

The brown bees go humming aloft; 

The humming-bird soars away; 
The butterfly blows like the leaf of a rose, 

Off, off in the sunshine gay; 
While you peep over the garden wall, 
Looking so wistfully after them all. 

Are you tired of the company 

Of the balsams so dull and proud ? 
Of the coxcombs bold and the marigold, 

And the spider- wort wrapped in a cloud ? 
Have you not plenty of sunshine and dew, 
And crowds of gay gossips to visit you ? 

How you flutter, and reach, and climb ! 

How eager your wee faces are ! 
Aye, turned to the light till the blind old night 

Is led to the world by a star. 
Well, it surely is hard to feel one's wings, 
And still be prisoned like wingless things. 

" Tweet, tweet," then says Parson Thrush, 

Who is preaching up in a tree; 
1 ' Though you never may fly while the world goes by, 

Take heart, little flowers," says he; 
" For often, I know, to the souls that aspire 
Comes something better than their desire !" 

/St. Nicholas. 



Flowers, 221 



The Trailing Arbutus. 

John G. Whittier. 

I wandered lone where the pine trees made 
Against the east their barricade; 

And, gnided by its sweet 
Perfume, I found within a narrow dell 
The trailing spring flower, tinted like a shell, 

Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet. 

From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines 
^loaned ceasless overhead, the blossoming vines 

Lifted their glad surprise, 
While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees 
His feathers, ruffled by chill sea breeze, 

And snowdrifts lingered under April skies. 

As, pausing, o'er the lowly flowers I bent, 

I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged and pent, 

Which yet find room, 
Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, 
To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day, 

And make the sad earth happier for their bloom. 



A Bunch of Cowslips. 

In the rarest of English valleys 

A motherless girl ran wild, 
And the greenness and silence and gladness 

Were soul of the soul of the child. 
The birds were her gay little brothers, 

The squirrels her sweethearts shy; 
And her heart kept tune with the raindrops, 

And sailed with the clouds in the sky; 
And angels kept coming and going. 

With beautiful things to do; 
And wherever they left a footprint, 

A cowslip or primrose grew. 



222 Practical Recitations. 

She was taken to live in London — 

So thick with pitiless folk — 
And she could not smile for its badness, 

And could not breathe for its smoke; 
And now as she lay on her pallet, 

Too weary and weak to rise, 
A s.mile of ineffable longing 

Brought dews to her faded eyes; 
" Oh, me ! for a yellow cowslip, 

A pale little primrose dear ! 
Won't some kind angel remember, 

And pluck one and bring it here ?" 

They brought her a bunch of cowslips; 

She took them with fingers weak, 
And kissed them, and stroked them, and loved them, 

And laid them against her cheek. 
" It was kind of the angels to send them; 

And now I'm too tired to pray, 
If God looks down at the cowslips, 

He'll know what I want to say." 
They buried them in her bosom; 

And when she shall wake and rise, 
Why may not the flowers be quickened, 

And bloom in her happy skies ? 



Daffodils. 

KOBERT HeRRICK. 

We have short time to stay as you, 

We have as short a spring; 
As quick a growth, to meet decay. 

As you or anything. 
We die 
As your hours do, and dry 
Away, 

Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 

Ne'er to be found again. 



Flowers. 223 



Chrysanthemums. 

Mrs. Mary E. Dodge. 

Bravest of brave sweet blossoms in all of the garden-row; 
Fair, when most of the flowers shrink from the winds that 

blow; 
Gay, when the dismal north wind wails through the tree-tops 

dumb; 
Breathing a breath of gladness is the brave Chrysanthemum. 

One is of tawny color; another of cardinal glow, 

As the cheek of a sun-warmed maiden and reddest of wine 

will show; 
While some are of gorgeous yellow, like gold in a monarch's 

crown, 
And some of a royal purple, dusted with softest down. 

Some of a creamy whiteness, touched to a rosy blush, 

As the snow of the lovely Jungfrau glows with a sunset flush; 

Some flame at the heart, pearl-petaled; and lavender-hued 
are some; 

Yet each of them, crude or cultured, just a brave Chrysanthe- 
mum. 



Roses. 



It is summer, says a fairy, 
Bring me tissue light and airy; 
Bring me colors of the rarest, 
Search the rainbow for the fairest 
Sea-shell, pink and sunny yellow, 
Kingly crimson, deep and mellow; 
Faint red in Aurora beaming, 
And the white in pure pearl gleaming. 

Bring me diamonds from the spaces 
Where the air the earth embraces; 
Bring me gold-dust by divining 
Where the humming-bird is mining; 



224 . Practical Recitations. 

Bring me sweets as rich as may be 
From the kisses of a baby; 
With an art no fay discloses 
I am going to make some roses. 



The Message of the Snowdrop. 

Courage and hope, true heart ! 

Summer is coming though late the spring, 
Over the breast of the quiet mold, 

With an emerald shimmer — a glint of gold, 
Till the leaves of the regal rose unfold 

At the rush of the swallow's wing. 

Courage and hope, true heart ! 

Summer is coming though spring be late; 
Wishing is weary and waiting is long, 
But sorrow's day hath an even-song, 
And the garlands that never shall fade belong 

To the soul that is strong to wait. 



Ragged Sailors. 

O ragged, ragged Sailors ! 

I pray you answer me: 
What may you all be doing 

So far away from sea ? 

" We're loitering by the roadsides, 
We're lingering on the hills, 
To talk with pretty Daisies 
In stiff and snowy frills. 

" And though our blue be ragged, 
Eight welcome still are we 
To tell the nodding lasses 
Long tales about the sea !" 



DIALOGUES. 



The Queen's Necklace. 

Alexander Dumas. 

Note.— The scandal concerning this famous necklace— upon which the story- 
is founded — was one of the many misfortunes endured by the unhappy 
Queen Marie Antoinette. 

rniQT.Q^+oT.0. j Marie Antoinette. Queen of France, 
unaracters. j Monsieur Boehmer, Merchant. 

Monsieur Boehmer. We do not come to offer anything 
to your Majesty, we should fear to be indiscreet: but we 
come to fulfill a duty concerning the necklace which 
your Majesty did not deign to take. 

Marie Antoinette. Oh! then the necklace has come 
again! It was really beautiful, M. Boehmer. 

M. B. So beautiful that your Majesty alone was 
worthy to wear it. 

M. A. My consolation is that it cost a million and a 
half francs, and in these times there is no sovereign that 
can giye such a sum for a necklace; so that although I 
cannot wear it, no one else can. 

M. B. That is an error of your Majesty's. The neck- 
lace is sold. 

M. A. Sold! To whom? 

M. B. Ah, Madame, that is a state secret. 

M. A. Oh, I think I am safe. A state secret means 
that there is nothing to tell. 

M. B. With your Majesty we do not act as with 
others. The necklace is sold, but in the most secret 
manner, and an embassador — 
15 



226 Practical Recitations. 

M. A. I really think you believe it yourself! Come, 
M. Boehmer, tell me at least the country he comes from, 
or, at all events, the first letter of his name. 

M. B. Madame, it is the embassador from Portugal. 

M. A. The embassador from Portugal! There is 
none here, M. Boehmer. 

M. B. He came expressly for this, Madame. 

M. A. "Well, so much the better for the Queen of 
Portugal. We will speak of it no more. 

M. B. We could not let the diamonds leave France 
without expressing our regret to your Majesty. It is a 
necklace which is now known all over Europe, and we 
wished to know definitely that your Majesty really re- 
fused it before we parted with it. 

M. A. My refusal has been made public, and has been 
too much applauded for me to repent it. 

M. B. Oh, Madame, if the people found it admirable 
that your Majesty preferred a ship of war to a necklace, 
the nobility at least would not think it surprising if you 
bought the necklace after all. 

M. A. Do not speak of it any more! 

M. B. It has touched your Majesty's neck; it ought 
not to belong to any one else. We will return to-mor- 
row. 

M. A. Impossible! I have amused myself with these 
jewels; to do more would be a fault. 

M. B. Your Majesty, then, refuses them? 

M. A. Yes, oh yes. Take the necklace back, Put 
it away immediately! 



Dialogues. 227 



Queen Isabella's Resolve. 
Epes Sargent. 

( Isabella, Queen of Spain. 
Characters:^ Don Gomez, a Grandee. 
( Christopher Columbus. 

Isabella. And so, Don Gomez, you think we ought to 
dismiss the proposition of this worthy Genoese ? 

Don Gomez. His scheme, your Majesty, is fanciful in 
the extreme. I am a plain man. I do not see visions 
and dream dreams like some men. 

I. And yet Columbus has given us good reasons for 
believing that he can reach India by sailing in a westerly 
direction. 

D. G. Delusion, your Majesty ! Admitting that the 
earth is a sphere, how would it be possible for him to 
return, if he once descended the sphere in the direction 
he proposes ? Would not the coming back be all up- 
hill ? Could a ship accomplish it even with the most 
favorable wind ? 

L What have you to say to these objections, Colum- 
bus? 

Col. With your Majesty's leave, I would suggest that 
if the earth is a sphere, the same laws of adhesion and 
motion must operate at every point on its surface. 

D. G. Don^t try to make me, a grandee of Spain, be- 
lieve such stuff as that there are people on the earth 
who walk with their heads down, like flies on a ceiling ! 
Would not the blood run into my head if I were stand- 
ing upside down ? 

Col. I have already answered that objection. If there 
are people on the earth who are our antipodes, it should 
be remembered that we are also theirs. 

/. To cut short the discussion, you think that the en- 



228 Practical Recitations. 

terjDrise, which Columbus proposes, is one unworthy of 
our serious consideration ? 

D. G. As a matter-of-fact man, I must confess that I 
do so regard it. Has your Majesty ever seen an embas- 
sador from this unknown coast ? 

7. Have you ever seen an embassador from the un- 
known world of spirits ? 

D. G. Certainly not. Through faith we look forward 
to it. 

I. Even so, by faith, does Columbus look forward, far 
over the misty ocean, to an undiscovered shore. Know, 
Don Gomez, that the absurdity, as you style it, shall be 
tested, and that forthwith. 

D. G. Your Majesty will excuse me if I remark that I 
have from your royal consort himself the assurance that 
the finances of the government are so exhausted by the 
late wars that he cannot consent to advance the neces- 
sary funds for fitting out an expedition of the kind pro- 
posed. 

I. Be mine, then, the privilege ! I have jewels, by 
the pledging of which I can raise the amount required ; 
and I have resolved that they shall be pledged to this 
enterprise without more delay. 

Col. Your Majesty shall not repent your heroic re- 
solve. I will return — be sure I will return — and lay at 
your feet such a jewel as never queen wore yet, an im- 
perishable fame that shall couple with your memory the 
benedictions of millions yet unborn in climes yet un- 
known to civilized man. There is a conviction in my 
mind that your Majesty will live to bless the hour you 
came to this decision. 



Dialogues. 229 



The Mill on the Floss. 

George Eliot. 

Characters i ToM Titlliver. 
unaracters. -j Maggie Tulliver. 

Maggie. I'll help you now, Tom. I've come to the 
school to stay ever so long. Fve brought my box and 
my pinafores — haven't I, father? 

Tom. You help me, you silly little thing! I should 
like to see you doing one of my lessons. Why, I learn 
Latin, too. Girls never learn such things. They're too 
silly. 

M. I know what Latin is very well. Latin's a lan- 
guage. There are Latin words in the dictionary. 
There's Ionics, a gift. 

T. Now you're just wrong there, Miss Maggie. You 
think you're very wise. But " bonus" means "good," 
as it happens — bonus, bona, bonum. 

M. Well, that's no reason why it shouldn't mean 
"gift." It may mean several things — almost every 
word does. There's "lawn" — it means the grass-plot 
as well as the stuff pocket-handkerchiefs are made of. 

T. Now, then, come with me into the study, Maggie. 

M. Oh, what books! How I should like to have as 
many books as that! 

T. Why, you couldn't read one of 'em. They're all 
Latin. 

M. No, they aren't. I can read the back of this, 
"History of the Decline and Fall of the Eoman Em- 
pire." 

T. Well, what does that mean? You don't know. 

M. But I could soon find out. I should look inside 
and see what it was about. 



230 Practical Recitations. 

T. Oh, I say, Maggie, we must keep quiet here, you 
know. If we break anything, we'll have to cry peccavi. 

M. What's that? 

T. It's the Latin for a good scolding. 

M. Is your Mrs. Stelling a cross woman, Tom? 

T. I believe you! 

M. I think all women are crosser than men. Aunt 
Glegg's a great deal crosser than Uncle Glegg, and 
mother scolds me more than father does. 

T. Well, you'll be a woman some day, so you needn't 
talk. 

M. But / shall be a clever woman, Tom. 

T. Oh, I dare say, and a nasty conceited thing. 
Everybody'll hate you. 

M. But you oughtn't to hate me, Tom. It will be 
very wicked of you, for I shall be your sister. 

T. Oh, bother! Come, it's time for me to learn my 
lessons. Just see what I've got to do! 



Characters J MrS ' TULLIVER. 

Characters, j Mrs PuLLET# 

Mrs. P. My new bonnet has come home, Bessy. 

Mrs. T. Has it, sister? And how do you like it? 

Mrs. P. It's apt to make a mess with clothes, taking 
them out and puting them in again. But it would be 
a pity for you to go away without seeing it. There's 
no knowing what may happen. 

Mrs. T. I'm afraid it'll be troublesome to you getting 
it out, sister; but I should like to see what kind of a 
crown she's made you. 

Mrs. P. You'd like to see it on, sister? I'll open the 
shutter a bit farther. 

Mrs. T. Well, if you don't mind taking off your cap, 
sister. 



Dialogues. 231 



Mrs. P. I've sometimes thought there's a loop too 
much of ribbon on the left side, sister. What do you 
think? 

Mrs. T. Well, I think it's best as it is. If you med- 
dled with it, sister, you might repent. How much 
might she charge you for that bonnet, sister? 

Mrs. P. Pullet pays for it. He said I was to have 
the best bonnet at Garum Church, let the next best be 
whose it would. I may never wear it twice, sister; who 
knows? 

Mrs. T. Don't talk of that, sister. I hope you'll 
keep your health this summer. 

Mrs. P. But there may come a death in the family, 
as there did soon after I had my green satin bonnet. 

Mrs. T. That tvoidtl be unlucky. There's never so 
much pleasure in wearing a bonnet a second year, es- 
pecially when the crowns are so chancy — never two 
summers alike. 

Mrs. P. Ah, it's the way of the world! Sister, if 
you should never see that bonnet again till I'm dead and 
gone, you'll remember I showed it to you this very day. 



The Hills of the Shatemuc. 

Susan Warner. 

fharartprs- i RuFIJS Landholm. 
^naraciers. -j WlNTHROP Landholm. 

Rufus. We've got the farm in pretty good order now. 

Winthrop. Yes, father has, if those stumps were once 
out. We ought to have good crops this year of most 
things. 

R. I am sure I have spent four or five years of my 
life in hard work upon it. 



232 Practical Recitations. 

W. Your life ain't much the worse for it. Father has 
spent more than that. How hard he has worked — to 
make this farm ! 

R. It was a pretty tough subject to begin with ; but 
now it's the handsomest farm in the county. It ought 
to pay considerable after this. 

W. It hasn't brought us in much so far, Eufus, ex- 
cept just to keep along; and a pretty tight fit at that. 

R. If the farm was clear, I'd stand the chance of its 
paying. It's that keeps us down — the debt. 

W. Debt! What debt? 

R. The interest on the mortgage. 

W. What is the debt ? 

R. Several thousands, I believe. v 

W. You and I must pay off that money, Eufus. 

R. Ay; but still there's the question, which is the 
best way to do it ? 

W. The best way, I've a notion, is not to take too 
long noon-spells in the afternoon. 

R. Stop a bit. Sit down again ; I want to speak to 
you. Do you want to spend all your life following the 
oxen? 

W. What is the matter, Eufus ? 

R. Matter ! Why, Winthrop, that I am not willing 
to stay here and be a ploughman all my life, when I 
might be something better. 

W. How can you be anything better, Eufus ? 

R. Do you think all the world is like this little world 
which these hills shut in ? There is another sort of 
world, Winthrop, where people know something ; where 
other things are to be done than running plough fur- 
rows; where men may read and write — do something 
great — distinguish themselves. I want to be in that 
world. 



Dialogues. 233 



W. But what will you do, Eufus, to get into that 
world ? We are shut in here. 

R. I am not shut in ! I will live for something 
greater than this ! 

W. So would I, if I could ; but what are we to do ? 

R. There is only one thing to do. I shall go to college. 

W. But some preparation is necessary, Eufus; isn't 
it ? How will you get that ? Father wants us this 
summer. We are just beginning to help him. 

R. We can help him much better the other way. 
Farming is the most miserable slow way of making 
money that ever was contrived. 

W. How do you propose to make money, Eufus ? 

R. I don't know. I am not thinking about making 
money at present. 

W. It takes a great deal to go to college, don't it ? 

R. Yes. But I intend to go, Winthrop. 

W. Yes, you'll go. 

R. I'll try for it. 

W. And yoiCll get it, too, Eufus ! 



Mistress and Maid. 

Dinah Mulock Craik. 

rharflH-prs- < Selina Leaf. 
Characters. -| HlLARY LeaF- 

Selina. I'm sure I don't know how we are to manage 
with Elizabeth. That greedy — 

Hilary. And growing — 

S. I say that greedy girl eats as much as both of us. 
And as for her clothes — her mother doesn't keep her 
decent. 

H. She would find it hard on three pounds a year. 



231 Practical Recitations. 

S. Hilary, how dare you contradict me ? I am only 
stating a plain fact. 

H. And I another. But, indeed/ I don't want to 
talk, Selina. 

S. You never do except when you are wished to be 
silent, and then your tongue goes like any race-horse. 

H. Does it ? Well, like Gilpin's, 

"It carries weight, it rides a race, 
'Tis for a thousand pound !" 

— and I only wish it were. Heigh-ho ! If I could but 
earn a thousand pounds ! 

S. I'm sure she was as black as a chimney-sweep all 
to-day. Her pinafore had three rents in it, which she 
never thinks of mending, though I gave her needles and 
thread myself a week ago. She doesn't know how to 
use them any more than a baby. 

H. Possibly nobody ever taught her. 

S. Yes, she went for a year to the National School, 
she says. 

H. Well, her forte is certainly children. She is won- 
derfully patient with our troublesome scholars. 

S. You always find something to say for her. 

H. I should be ashamed if I could not find something 
to say for anybody who is always abused. How can I 
help it, Selina, if a girl fifteen years old is not a paragon 
of perfection ? as we all are, if we only could find it 
out. 

8. Her month ends to-morrow. Let her go. 

H. And perhaps get in her place a story-teller, a 
tale-bearer, even a thief. By the bye, the first step in 
the civilization of the Polynesians was giving them 
clothes. Suppose we try the experiment with Elizabeth ? 



Dialogues. 235 



The Last Days of Pompeii. 

Edward Bulwer Lytton. 

City destroyed, a.d. August 24, 79. Discovered, 1750. 
Characters: | p^°g^ US ' [ Citizens - 

Clodius. When is our next wild-beast fight ? 

Pausa. It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August. 
We have a most lovely young lion for the occasion. 

(7. Whom shall we get for him to eat ? Alas ! there 
is a great scarcity of criminals. You must positively 
find some innocent or other to condemn to the lion, 
Pausa. 

P. Indeed, I have thought very seriously about it of 
late. It was a most infamous law which forbade us to 
send our own slaves to the wild beasts. Not to let us 
do what we like with our own ! That's what I call an 
infringement on property itself. 

C. Not so in the good old days of the Republic. 

P. And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is 
such a disappointment to the poor people. How they 
do love to see a good tough battle between a man and a 
lion ! And all this innocent pleasure they may lose — if 
the gods don't send us a good criminal soon — from this 
cursed law. 

C. What can be worse policy than to interfere with 
the manly amusements of the people ? 

P. Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates ! We have no 
Nero at present. 

(7. He was, indeed, a tyrant. He shut up our amphi- 
theatre for ten years. 

P. I wonder it didn't create a rebellion. 

C. As it very nearly did. 



236 • Practical Recitations. 

( Glaucus, ) 
Characters:^ Sallust, V Citizens. 
( Lepidus, j 

Sallust. Ah, it is a lustrum since I saw you ! 

Glaucus. And how have you spent the lustrum ? What 
new dishes have you discovered ? 

S. I have been scientific, and have made some experi- 
ments in the feeding of lampreys. I confess I despair 
of bringing them to the perfection which our Roman 
ancestors attained. 

G. Miserable man ! and why ? 

$. Because it is no longer lawful to give them a slave 
to eat. But slaves are not slaves nowadays, and have 
no sympathy with their masters' interest, or one of mine 
would destroy himself to oblige me. 

Lepidus. What news from Rome ? 

S. The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to 
the senators. 

L. He is a good creature. They say he never sends a 
man away without granting his request. 

S. Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reser- 
voir ? 

G. Not unlikely; for he who grants a favor to one 
Eoman must always do it at the expense of another. Be 
sure that for every smile Titus has caused a hundred 
eyes have wept. 

S. Long live Titus ! He has promised my brother a 
quaestorship because he has run through his fortune. 

L. And wishes now to enrich himself among the people. 

S. Exactly so. 

G. That is putting the people to some use. Well, let 
us to the baths. This is the time when all the world is 
there, and Fulvius, whom you admire so much, is going 
to read us an ode. 



Dialogues. 237 

Ruth Hall. 
Fanny Fern. 

onaraciers. ^ Mrg> RuTH Hall ^ Daughter-in-law. 

J/r«§. iT. Good morning, Euth; Mrs. Hall, I suppose, 
I should call yon, only that I can't get used to being 
shoved aside so suddenly. 

Ruth. Oh, pray don't say Mrs. Hall to me. Call me 
any name that best pleases you; I shall be quite satis- 
fied. 

Mrs. H. I suppose you understand all about house- 
keeping, Euth? 

Ruth. K~o. I have but just returned from boarding- 
school. 

Mrs. H. It is a great pity you were not brought up 
properly. Harry has his fortune yet to make, you 
know. Young people nowadays seem to think money 
comes in showers. Harry has been brought up sensibly. 
He has been taught economy. Do you know how to 
iron, Euth? 

Ruth. Yes. I have sometimes clear-starched my own 
muslins and laces. 

Mrs. H. Glad to hear it. Can you make bread? 
When I say dread, I mean bread, — none of your soda, 
saleratus mixtures, — old-fashioned yeast-riz bread. Do 
you know how to make it? 

Ruth. No. People in the city always buy baker's 
bread; my father did. 

Mrs. H. Your father! Land's sake, child, you 
mustn't quote your father, now you're married. I hope 
you won't be always running home, or running any- 
where, in fact. Do you know I should like your looks 
better if you didn't curl your hair? 



238 Practical Recitations. 

Ruth. I don't curl it; it curls naturally. 

Mrs. H. That's a pity. You should avoid everything 
that looks frivolous. And; Ruth, if you should feel the 
need of exercise, don't gad in the streets. There is 
nothing like a broom and a dust-pan to make the blood 
circulate. I hope you don't read novels and such trash. 
I have a very select little library containing a most ex- 
cellent sermon on Predestination by our good old minis- 
ter, Dr. Diggs. Any time you stand in need of rational 
reading, come to me. 



Diogenes and Plato on Pride. 

T. A. Bland. 

Diogenes. Fie on thy philosophy, Plato! In spite of 
all, thou art the veriest of aristocrats, while philosophy 
teacheth humility. 

Plato. Thou hast spoken truly, Diogenes, but not in 
wisdom; thy speech is wise, 'tis true, but thy thought is 
foolish. That I am proud, I own, and that I am a 
democrat, I do most sincerely maintain. 

D. Now thou speakest in riddles. Thy words are 
double, and thy answer as the answer of the fool. 

P. Gently, Diogenes. Anger not thy mind with 
quick speech that is void of wisdom. Let us inquire 
into this matter with the calmness and deliberation be- 
fitting the dignity of philosophy. Is not pride self- 
respect, and is not self-respect an admirable virtue? 

D. Nay, nay, Plato. Thou art surely in the wrong 
here. Pride is vanity, and it leadeth to contempt for 
the merits of thy fellows. Thus is aristocracy fostered. 

P. If it were as you affirm, then would I quickly 



Dialogues, 239 



eschew pride. But I do not so hold, nor did Socrates. 
Methinks it were vanity, and not pride, thou wouldst 
condemn, Diogenes, and pride and vanity, I hold, are 
very different matters. 

D. Thy reasons? Give me thy reasons for this opin- 
ion. I do maintain that pride is the root and substance 
of vanity. 

P. Then thou dost surely not think wisely. To be 
proud is to esteem one's self, while the vain man is 
anxious about the praise of the mob. Pride is self- 
reliant, confident, courageous. Vanity is fawning, 
anxious, and cowardly. And thou, too, art proud, Diog- 
enes. Thy contempt for what thou callest my pride is 
the offspring of thy greater pride. Thou believest in 
the wisdom of Diogenes more than in that of Plato. Is 
not this thy pride? 

D. But Plato lives in a palace and clothes his person 
with costly raiment. Diogenes despiseth costly raiment 
and lives in a tub. 

P. Diogenes is therefore shown to be not only prouder 
than Plato, but vainer also. 

D. Vain, dost thou say, Plato? Art in thy right 
mind to call Diogenes vain? 

P. I call thee vain, Diogenes, and if thou but hear 
me I will prove it. Thou art vain of thy fame, for 
thou art famous for thy humility. Thou art proud 
of thy wisdom, also, Diogenes, and vain of thy learning. 
Thou thinkest that thou art wiser than Plato, else thou 
wouldst become his disciple; and richer than Alexander, 
else thou wouldst not scorn his gifts. 'Tis Diogenes 
who is the aristocrat. He thinks himself better than 
others, and is therefore above his fellows. 

D. Hold thee there, Plato. Thou surely doest me 
wrong. Do I not live like a peasant, and scorn only 



240 Practical Recitations, 

the rich and they that are in high places; and is that 
pride? 

P. Thou dost indeed wear the garb of a peasant, but 
thou also carriest a lantern to search for an honest man, 
boldly proclaiming that until such a man is found thou 
wilt live alone. Is not this virtuous aristocracy? Fie 
on thy democracy, Diogenes! By thine own argument 
thou art a greater aristocrat than Plato. But learn this, 
and add it to thy stock of wisdom: True pride is con- 
sistent with philosophy, and philosophy is the foe of 
vanity. 



LORNA D00NE. 

E. D. Blackmore. 

Place, London; time, about 1680; reign of James II. 

PharaotPrq- J JoHN RlDD ' a countryman. 

unaracrerb. -j Judge g eorge Jeffreys, Lord Chief Justice of England. 

J. R. May it please your worship, here I am, accord- 
ing to order, awaiting your good pleasure. 

J. J. Thou art made to weight, John, more than or- 
der. How much dost thou tip the scales to? 

J. R, Only twelve score pounds, my lord, when I be 
in wrestling trim. And sure I must have lost weight 
here, fretting so long in London. 

J. J, Ha, much fret there is in thee! Has his Maj- 
esty seen thee? 

J. R. Yes, my lord, twice, or even thrice, and he 
made some jest concerning me. 

J. J. A very poor one, I doubt not. Now, is there 
in thy neighborhood at Exmoor a certain nest of robbers, 
miscreants, and outlaws, whom all men fear to handle? 

J. R. Yes, my lord; at least I believe some of them 
be robbers; and all of them are outlaws. 



Dialogues. 241 



J". J. And what is your high-sheriff about that he doth 
not hang them all? Or send them up for me to hang, 
without more to do about it? 

J. R. I reckon that he is afraid, my lord. It is not 
safe to meddle with them. They are of good birth, and 
reckless, and their place is very strong. 

J. J. Good birth! What was Lord Eussell of, Lord 
Essex, and Sidney? ^Tis the surest heirship to the 
block to be the chip of an old one. What is the name 
of this pestilent race, and how many of them are there? 

J". R. They are the Doones of Bagworthy Forest, may 
it please your worship. And we reckon there be about 
forty of them, besides the women and children. 

J. J. Forty Doones all forty thieves! How long have 
they been there, then? 

J. R. Before the great war they came, longer back 
than I can remember. 

/. J. Ay, long before thou wast born, John. Good, 
thou speakest plainly. Woe betide a liar, whenso I get 
hold of him. Ye need me on the Western Circuit, and 
ye shall have me when London traitors are hung and 
swung. Now, a few more things, John Kidd, and, for 
the present, I have done with thee. Is there any sound, 
round your way of disaffection to his most gracious 
Majesty? 

J. R. No, my lord; no sign whatever. We pray for 
him in church, and talk about him afterward, hoping it 
may do him good, as it is intended. But after that we 
have naught to say, not knowing much about him — at 
least till I get home again. 

J. J. That is as it should be, John, and the less you 

say the better. Now, John, I have taken a liking to 

thee; for never man told me the truth, without fear or 

favor, more truly than thou hast done. I meant to 

16 



242 Practical Recitations, 

use thee as my tool, but thou art too honest and sim- 
ple; and never let me find thee, John, a tool for the 
other side* or a tube for my words to pass through. 



The Musical Instrument. 

Characters: | AnNTjABZTHA. 

A, T. Thy grandmother, child, thy grandmother used 
to play upon a much better instrument than thine. 

L. Indeed; how could it have been better? You 
know a piano is the most fashionable instrument, and is 
used by everybody that is anything. 

A. T. Thy grandmother was something, yet she never 
saw a piano-forte. 

L. But what was the name of the instrument? Had 
it strings, and was it played by the hand? 

A. T. You must give me time to recollect the name. 
It was, indeed, a stringed instrument, and was played 
with the hand. 

X. By the hands alone? How vulgar! But I should 
really like to see one, and papa must buy me one when I 
return to the city. Do you think we can obtain one? 

A. T. No; you probably will not obtain one there; 
but, doubtless, they may be found in some of the coun- 
try towns. 

Z. How many strings had it? Must one play with 
both hands? And could one play the double-bass? 

A. T. I know not whether it would play the double- , 
bass, as you call it; but it was played with both hands, 
and had two strings. 

L. Two strings only? Surely you are jesting! How 
could good music be procured from such an instrument, 
when the piano has two or three hundred? 



Dialogues. 243 



A. T. Oh, the strings were yery long, one of them 
about fourteen feet, and the other may be lengthened at 
pleasure, even to fifty feet or more. 

L. What a prodigious deal of room it must take up! 
But no matter. I will have mine in the old hall, and 
papa may have an addition built to it, for he says I shall 
never want for anything, and so does mamma. But 
what kind of sound did it make? Were the strings 
struck with little mallets, like the piano ? or were they 
snapped like a harp? 

A. T. Like neither of those instruments, as I recol- 
lect; but it produced a soft kind of humming music, 
and was peculiarly agreeable to the husband and rela- 
tions of the performer. 

L. Oh, as to pleasing one's husband or relations, you 
know that is altogether vulgar in fashionable society. 
But I am determined to have one, at any rate. Was it 
easily learned? and was it taught by French and Italian 
masters? 

A. T. It was easily learned, but taught neither by 
Frenchmen nor Italians. 

L. Can you not possibly remember the name? How 
shall we know what to inquire for? 

A. T. Yes. I do now remember the name, and you 
must inquire for a Spinning-wheel. 



Put Yourself in His Place. 

A STORY OF THE TRADES-UNIONS. 

Charles Reade. 

nh f J Mr. Grotatt, Proprietor of The Cutlers' Arms. 

^udrdc&eib. { Henry little, Inventor, and Manufacturer of Cutlers' Tools. 

Mr. G. Well, Mr. Little, now, between ourselves, 
don't you think it rather hard that the poor workman 



244 Practical Recitations. 

should have to hang and race the master's grindstone for 
nothing ? 

Mr. L. Why, they share the loss between them. The 
stone costs the master three pounds, and hanging it only 
costs the workman four or fiye shillings. Where's the 
grievance ? 

Mr. G. Hanging and racing a stone shortens the 
grinder's life ; fills his lungs with grit. Is the workman 
to give Life and Labor for a forenoon, and is Capital to 
contribute nothing ? Is that your view of Life, Labor, 
and Capital, young man ? 

Mr. L. That is smart ; but a rule of trade is a rule 
till it is altered by consent of the parties that made it. 
Now, right or wrong, it is the rule of trade here that 
the small grinders find their own stones and pay for 
power. Cheetham is smarting under your rules, and 
you can't expect him to go against any rule that saves 
him a shilling. 

Mr. G. What does this grinder — Cheetham — think ? 

Mr. L. You might as well ask what the grindstone 
thinks. 

Mr. G. Well, what does the grinder say, then ? 

Mr. L. Says he'd rather run the old stone out than 
lose a forenoon. 

Mr. G. Well, sir, it is his business. 

Mr. L. It may be a man's business to hang himself ; 
but it is the bystanders' to hinder him. 

Mr. G. You mistake me. I mean that the grinder is 
the only man who knows whether a stone is safe. 

Mr. L. But this grinder does not pretend his stone is 
safe ; all he says is, safe or not, he'll run it. So now the 
question is, will you pay four shillings yourself for this 
blockhead's loss of time in hanging and racing a new 
stone ? Your Union can find money. Why grudge it 



Dialogues. 245 



when there's life to be saved, perhaps, and ten times 
cheaper than you pay for blood ? 

Mr. G. Young man, did you come here to insult us 
with these worn-out slanders ? 

Mr. L. No ; but I came to see whether you secre- 
taries, who can find pounds to assassinate men and blow 
up women and children with gunpowder, can find shillings 
to secure the life of one of your own members. 

Mr. G. Well, sir, the application is without precedent, 
and I must decline it ; but this I beg to do as courteously 
as the application has been made uncourteously. 

Mr. L. Oh, it is easy to be polite when you've got no 
heart. 

Mr. G. You are the first ever brought that charge 
against me. Now, haye you nothing to say to us on 
your own account ? 

Mr. L. Not a word ! 

Mr. G. But suppose I could suggest a way by which 
you could carry on your trade here and offend nobody ? 

Mr. L. I should decline to hear it. You and I are at 
war on that. You have done your worst, and I shall do 
my best to make you all smart for it, the moment I get 
a chance. 

Mr. G. So be it, then ! 



Pilgrim's Progress. 

John Bunyan. 

Characters: |?i™\[ Pilgrims. 

Faith. Friend, whither away ? Are you going to the 
Heavenly Country ? 

Talk. I am going to the same place. 



246 Practical Recitations. 

F. That is well. Then I hope we may have your good 
company. 

T. With a very good will will I be your companion. 

F. Come on then, and let us go together, and let us 
spend our time in discoursing of things that are profit- 
able. 

T. To talk of things that are good, to me is very ac- 
ceptable, with you or with any other ; for to speak the 
truth, there are but few who care thus to spend their 
time, but choose much rather to be speaking of things to 
no profit, and this hath been a trouble to me. 

F. That is indeed a thing to be lamented ; for what 
things so worthy of the use of the tongue and mouth of 
men on earth as are the things of the God of Heaven ? 

T. I like you wonderful well, for your saying is full of 
conviction. What things so pleasant ? — that is, if a man 
hath any delight in things that are wonderful. If, for 
instance, a man doth delight to talk of the History or 
the Mystery of things. 

F. That's true ; but to be profited by such things in 
our talk, should be that which we design. 

T. That's it that I said. Further, by this a man may 
learn to refute false opinions, to vindicate the truth, and 
also to instruct the ignorant. 

F. All this is true, and glad am I to hear these things 
from you. Well then, what is that one thing that we 
shall at this time found our discourse upon ? 

T. What you will. I will talk of things Heavenly, or 
things Earthly; things Moral, or things Evangelical; 
things Sacred, or things Profane ; things past, or things 
to come ; things foreign, or things at home ; things more 
Essential, or things Circumstantial ; provided that all be 
done to our profit. 

F, Doth your life and conversation testify to Faith, 



Dialogues. 247 



Love, and Grace ? or standeth your Religion in Word or 
in Tongue, and not in Deed and Truth ? Pray if you 
incline to answer me in this, say no more than you know 
the God above will say Amen to ; and also nothing but 
what your conscience can justify you in. 

T. This kind of talk I did not expect ; nor am I in- 
clined to give an answer to such questions, because I 
count not myself bound thereto, unless you take upon 
you to be a Catechizer ; and though you should do so, 
yet I may refuse to make you my Judge. But, I pray, will 
you tell me why you ask me such questions ? 

F. Because I saw you forward to talk, and because I 
knew that you had naught else but notion. 

T. Since you judge so rashly as you do, I cannot but 
conclude you are some peevish or melancholy man, not 
fit to be discoursed with ; and so adieu. 



Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet. 

Charles Kingsley. 

rtmrflM-Prc- i Mr - Crossthwaite, Tailor, 
unaraciers. -j Alton Locke, Tailor's Apprentice. 
Time, 1830. 

A. L. Mr. Crossthwaite, I want to speak to you. I 
want you to advise me. 

Mr. C. I have known that a long time. 

A. L. Then why did you never say a kind word to 
me? 

Mr. C. I was waiting to see whether you were worth 
it. Besides, I wanted to see whether you trusted me 
enough to ask me. Now you've broke the ice at last, 
in with you head and ears, and see what you can fish 
out. 



248 Practical Recitations. 

A. L. I am very unhappy. 

Mr. C. That's no new disorder, as I "know of. 

A. L. No; hut I think the reason I am unhappy is a 
strange one; at least, I never read of hut one person else 
in the same way. I want to educate myself and I can't. 

Mr. C. You must have read precious little, then, if 
you think yourself in a strange way. Bless the hoy's 
heart! And what the dickens do you want to he edu- 
cating yourself for? If you had one-tenth the trouble 
taken with you that is taken with every pig-headed son 
of an aristocrat — 

A. L. Am I clever? 

Mr. C. Clever? What, haven't you found that out 
yet? Don't try to put that on me! 

A. L. Eeally, I never thought of it. 

Mr. C. More simpleton you! I heard said the other 
day that you were a thorough young genius. 

A. L. It sounds very grand, and I should certainly 
like to have a good education. But I can't see whose 
injustice keeps me out of one if I can't afford to pay for 
it. 

Mr. C. Whose? Why, the parsons', to be sure. 
They've got the monopoly of education in England, and 
get their bread by it. Of course, it's their interest to 
keep up the price of their commodity, and let no man 
have a taste of it who can't pay down handsomely. 

A. L. But I thought the clergy were doing so much 
to help the poor. At least, I hear all the dissenting 
ministers grumbling at their continual interference. 

Mr. C. Ay, educating them to make them slaves and 
bigots. They don't teach them what they teach their 
own sons. 

A . L. But there are countless stories of great English- 
men who have risen from the lowest ranks. 



Dialogues. 249 



Mr. C. Ay; but where are the stories of those who 
have not risen? Dead men tell no tales; and this old 
whited sepulcher, society, ain't going to turn informer 
against itself. 

A. L. I trust and hope that if God intends me to rise 
he will open the way for me. Perhaps the very struggles 
and sorrows of a poor genius may teach him more than 
ever wealth and prosperity could. 

Mr. C. True, Alton, my boy, and that's my only 
comfort. It does make men of us, this bitter battle of 
life. We workingmen, when we do come out of the fur- 
nace, come out steel and granite, and woe to the papier- 
mache gentleman that runs against us! 



Metaphysics. 

Characters : Two Students. 

First. Pray tell me something about Metaphysics, for 
I cannot for my life make anything out of it. 

Second. Metaphysics is the science of abstractions. 

F. I am no wiser for that definition. 

S. Well, take for example this earth. Now the earth 
may exist. 

F. Who ever doubted that ? 

S. A great many men, and some yery learned ones ; 
although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond all possi- 
ble gainsaying or denial that it does not exist. 

F. That is a point of considerable consequence to 
settle. 

S. Now the earth may exist, and — 

F. But how is all this to be found out ? 

8. By digging down to first principles. 

F. Ay, there is nothing equal to the spade and pick- 



250 Practical Recitations, 

axe ; 'tis by digging that we can find out whether the 
world exists or not. 

S. That is true,, because if we dig to the bottom of 
the earth and find no foundation, then it is clear that 
the world stands upon nothing ; or, in other words, that 
it does not stand at all, therefore it stands to reason — 

F. But if one can't believe his own eyes, what signifies 
talking about it ? 

S. Our eyes are nothing but the inlets of sensation; 
we are sure of nothing that we see with our eyes. 

F. Well, what does a man begin to build upon in the 
metaphysical way ? 

S. Why, he begins by taking something for granted. 

F. But is that a sure way of going to work ? 

S. Why it's — the — only thing he — can — do. Meta- 
physics is'the consideration of immateriality, or the mere 
spirit and essence of things. When we speak of essence 
of things, we mean the essence of locality, the essence 
of duration — 

F. And the essence of peppermint ? 

S. 'The essence I mean is quite a different affair. It 
is a thing that has no matter. It has no substance nor 
solidity, large nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short. 

F. Then what is the long and short of it ? 

S. Abstraction. 

F. What do you say to a pitchfork as an abstraction ? 

8. A pitchfork would mean none in particular, but 
one in general, and would be a thing in abstraction. 

F. It would be a thing in the haymow. What do 
you think of a red cow for an example ? 

S. A red cow, considered as an abstraction, would be 
an animal possessing neither hides nor horns, bones nor 
flesh; it would have no color at all, for its redness 
would be the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. 



Dialogues. 251 



It would neither go to pasture, chew cud, give milk, nor 
do anything of a like nature. 

F. Nonsense ! All the metaphysics under the sun 
wouldn't make a pound of butter ! 



Work: A Story of Experience. 

Louisa M. Alcott. 

[By permission of Roberts Bros.] 

Characters- J Mrs " Betsy Devon. 
L,naracters. ( Christie Devon, her niece. 

C. D. Aunt Betsy, there's going to be a new Declara- 
tion of Independence.. 

Mrs. D. Bless us and save us ! what do you mean, 
child ? 

C. D. I mean that, being of age, Fm going to take 
care of myself, and not be a burden any longer. Uncle 
thinks I ought to go away. I don't intend to wait for 
him to tell me so, but, like the people in fairy tales, 
travel away into the world and seek my fortune. I 
know I can find it. 

Mrs. D. What crazy idee you got in your head now ? 

C. D. A very sane and sensible one, that's got to be 
worked out. I've had it a long time, and I've thought 
it over thoroughly, so I'm sure it's the right thing to do. 
I hate to be dependent, and, now there's no need of it, I 
can't bear it any longer. I'm old enough to take care of 
myself, and if I'd been a boy I should have been told to 
do it long ago. I'm sick of this dull town, where the one 
idea is, Eat, drink, and get rich; so let me go, Aunt 
Betsy, and find my place, wherever it is. 

Mrs. D. You mustn't think your uncle don't like you. 
He does, only he don't show it. I don't see why you 



252 Practical Recitations, 

can't be contented. I've lived here all my days, and 
never found the place lonesome. 

G. D. You and I are very different, ma'am. There 
was more yeast put into my composition, I guess; and 
after standing quiet in a warm corner so long, I begin to 
ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time so that I 
may turn out a wholesome loaf, else I shall turn sour 
and good for nothing. Does that make the matter any 
clearer ? 

Mrs. D. I see what you mean, Christie, but I never 
thought on't before. You be better riz than me; though, 
let me tell you, too much emptins makes bread poor 
stuff, like baker's trash; and too much workin' up makes 
it hard and dry. Now fly round, for the big oven is 
'most hot, and this cake takes a sight of time in the 
mixin'. 

C. D. You haven't said I might go, Aunt Betsy. 

Mrs. D. [Sorting ingredients and reading from cook- 
book). I ain't no right to keep you, dear, if you choose 
to take (a pinch of salt). I'm sorry you ain't happy, and 
think you might be ef you'd only (beat six yolks and 
whites together). But if you can't, and feel that you 
need (two cups of sugar) only speak to your uncle, and 
ef he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon) go, my dear, and 
take my blessin' with you (not forgetting to cover with a 
piece of paper). 

G. D. When I've done something to be proud of, you'll 
be glad to see me back again. Yes, I'll try my experi- 
ment; get rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, 
better still, be a Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or — 

Mrs. D. How are you on't for stockins', dear ? 

G. D. Thank you for bringing me down to my feet 
again, when I was soaring away too far and too fast. 
I'm poorly off for stockings, ma'am. 



Dialogues. 253 



Mrs. D. Don't you think you could be contented, 
Christie, ef I make the work lighter, and leave you more 
time for your books and things ? 

C. D. No, ma'am, for I can't find what I want here. 

Mrs. D. What do you want to find, child ? 

C. D. Look in the fire and I'll try to show you. Do 
you see those two logs ? Well, that one smoldering 
dismally away in the corner is what my life is now; the 
other, blazing and singing, is what I want my life to be. 

Mrs. D. Bless me, what an idee ! They are both a 
burnin' where they are put, and both will be ashes to- 
morrow; so what difference does it make ? 

C. D. I know the end is the same; but it does make a 
difference how they turn to ashes, and hoiu I spend my 
life. I hope my life, like the log which fills the room 
with light, may, whether long or short, be useful and 
cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends, and 
leave something behind besides ashes. 

Mrs. D. A good smart blowin' up with the belluses 
would make the green stick burn 'most as well as the dry 
one after a spell. I guess contentedness is the best bel- 
lus for young folks ef they would only think so. 

C. D. I dare say you are right, Aunt Betsy, but I 
want to try for myself. If I fail, I'll come back and 
follow your advice. 



254 Practical Recitations. 

Ninety-Three. 

Scene: A cafe in Paris. Time: June .28, 1793. 

( Robespierre. 
Characters: ■< Danton. 
( Marat. 

Danton. Listen ! There is only one thing imminent — 
the peril of the Kepublic. I only know one thing — to 
deliver France from the enemy. To accomplish that all 
means are fair. Let us be terrible and useful. Does 
the elephant stop to look where he sets his foot? We 
must crush the enemy. 

Robespierre. I shall be very glad. The question is to 
know where the enemy is. 

Danton. It is outside,, and I have chased it there. 

Rob. It is within, and I watch it. 

Marat. Calm yourselves. It is everywhere, and you 
are lost. 

Rob. A truce to generalities. I particularize. Here 
are facts. In fifteen days they will have an army of 
brigands numbering three hundred thousand men, and 
all Brittany will belong to the King of France. 

Marat. That is to say, to the King of England. 

Rob. No, to the King of France. It needs fifteen 
days to expel the stranger, and eighteen hundred years 
to eliminate monarchy. 

Danton. Very well, we will expel the English as we 
expelled the Prussians. 

Rob. Sit down again, Danton, and look at the map, 
instead of knocking it with your fist. 

Danton. That is madness ! Eobespierre, the danger is 
a circle, and we are within it. If this continue and we 
do not put things in order, the French Eevolution will 
kill the King of France for the King of Prussia's sake. 

Marat. You have each one his hobby. Danton, yours 



Dialogues. 255 



is Prussia ; Robespierre, yours is the Vendee. I am 
going to state facts in my turn. You do not perceive 
the real peril. It is the cafes and the gaming-houses. 
It is the paper money, the famine, the stock-brokers, 
and the monopolists — there is the danger. You see the 
danger at a distance when it is close at hand. Yes, the 
danger is everywhere, and above all in the centre. 

Danton. There, there, there ! 

Marat. What is needed is a dictator. Robespierre, 
you know that I want a dictator. 

Rob. I know, Marat. You or me ? 

Marat. Me or you ? 

Danton. The dictatorship ! Only try it ! 

Marat. Hold ! One last effort. Let us get some 
agreement. The situation is worth the trouble. Paris 
must assume the government of the Revolution. So be 
it. Well, the conclusion is a dictatorship. Let us seize 
the dictatorship — we three who represent the Revolu- 
tion. We are the three heads of Cerberus. Of these 
three heads, one talks — that is you, Rebespierre; one 
roars — that is you, Danton. 

Danton. The other bites — that is you, Marat. 

Rob. All three bite. 

Marat. Ah, Robespierre ! Ah, Danton ! You will not 
listen to me ! Well, you are lost; I tell you so. You do 
things which shut every door against you — except that 
of the tomb. 

Danton. That is our grandeur. 

Marat. Danton, beware ! Ah, you shrug your shoul- 
ders ! Sometimes a shrug of the shoulders makes the 
head fall. And as for thee, Robespierre, go on, powder 
thyself, dress thy hair, brush thy clothes, play the cox- 
comb. Fine as thou art, thou wilt be dragged at the 
tails of four horses ! 



256 Practical Recitations. 

Rod. Echo of Coblentz ! 

Danton. I am the echo of nothing — I am the cry of 
the whole, Eobespierre. 

Marat. Ah, you are young, you ! How old art thou, 
Danton ? Four-and-thirty. How many are your years, 
Robespierre ? Thirty-three. Well, I — I have lived 
always. I am the old human suffering — I have lived 
six thousand years. 

Danton. That is true. For six thousand years Cain 
has been preserved in hatred like the toad in a rock; 
the rock breaks, Cain springs out among men, and is 
called Marat. 

Marat. Danton ! 

Danton. Marat talks very loud about the dictatorship 
and unity, but he has only one ability — that of breaking 
to pieces. 

Rod. As for me, I say neither Eoland nor Marat. 

Marat. And I say neither Danton nor Robespierre. 
Let me give you advice, Danton. Do not meddle any 
more with politics — be wise. Adieu, gentlemen. 



X 



